Peace is a State of Mind
by Cookie Dust
Summary: Sequel to 'For the Price of a Soul'. Everyone wants peace. Unfortunately, no one's very good at finding it in healthy ways and when they do find it, something inevitably comes along to ruin it.
1. Winter '02 - Spring '04

**Before We Begin: **This fic is the sequel to my other fic 'For the Price of a Soul'. This story won't make the blindest bit of sense to you if you haven't read that, so go check it out before you continue any further.

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Warnings:** Alcohol and Drug Abuse. Self-harm. Some Violence/Torture (honestly only some; this fic isn't half as dark as FPS was).

**Author's Note:** This fic does not have Snape/James slash. I just thought I'd mention that before we get started because it wouldn't be a surprise if you thought it might head that way.

Now, without further delay:

**Peace is a State of Mind**

**Winter 2002**

Severus Snape's descent into alcoholism is as slow as his realisation is quick. Looking back, he could pick several events that precipitated his excessive drinking—Harry's kidnapping, Snape's faked death, Harry's second kidnapping, Snape's failure to rescue him, Harry's imprisonment in Azkaban, Snape's failure to find anything that would help him—but the simple fact remained that there was no tipping point. There was no event that turned him from someone who tended to drink too much into someone who was an alcoholic, no single drink which would have stopped him being an alcoholic if he hadn't drunk it, and he can't look back at his life and say '_that's_ when I became an alcoholic'.

But the point when his mind sits up and says 'oh shit, I'm an alcoholic' _is_ that easy to pinpoint. Maybe because he's sober, albeit unwillingly, or maybe because it's so violent, or maybe because for the first time in five years he feels his Bond to James twist and tug at his heart in a way it hasn't before and a way he sincerely hopes it never does again.

*PSM*

James coughs, blood splattering his lips, then groans as a fresh wave of agony spikes through his chest. He hurts everywhere. His right hand shakes as it clutches at his shoulder, uselessly trying to stop the blood pouring from where his flesh splits like creeping vines from his shoulder and down his chest, up towards his neck, over and down his back, and along his arm. His right leg trembles, filled with painful pins and needles from a hex, and his left knee is facing the wrong way. His head drops back against the wall and he blinks slowly, feeling unconsciousness pulling on him. Across the trashed dining room of Black Stag House, the blurry figure of Snape stands watching him. There's blood dripping down his face and from his left leg, while his right hand dangles at his side, fingers twisted and bent unnaturally.

James blinks again and when he opens his eyes Snape is crouching in front of him. The scent of vodka fills his nose, familiar and unpleasant less for the smell than for the memories it brings with it. He closes his eyes and feels a hand grab his as it starts to slip from his shoulder. Snape's talking, he thinks, hearing bits of words that make no sense. He remembers that he's supposed to be at his ballroom dance class this evening. He's probably late by now. Hopefully Marilyn, his partner, won't mind. Eric, one of the teachers, would dance with her no doubt and let his wife Zoe go around correcting the others' form.

The world tilts. He thinks he hears his name being called and struggles to open his eyes, to look and respond to the call that comes not just to his ears but to his soul. But all he sees is blackness and all he feels is pain and if he hears anything more at all it's lost in the drumming of his heartbeat and then even that's lost to nothing.

*PSM*

Snape sits in a Ministry holding cell, eyes closed to the dimly lit stone walls. He can hear the regular thudding footsteps of the guard pacing the corridor outside, providing the base beat for the rattling tune of his shackles, clinking as his trembling hands refuse to sit still. Beneath him the thin mattress provides little comfort from the hard bed, and the cold of the room seeps through his robes and burrows under his skin. His nose is filled with the lingering scent of alcohol and he knows his shakes are as much from his longing for that as it is from cold, but his mouth contains only the bitter taste of the Sobriety Potion that James forced down him before their fight, which has left his head painfully, mercilessly clear to torment him with the image of James slumped on the floor, dying from wounds that Snape inflicted on him. Snape's own injuries, minimal, have already been healed. There's not even a kink in his fingers to show they'd ever been broken in the first place. For hours he's left alone with nothing but the cold, the memories, and his own bitter self-loathing.

*PSM*

He goes through withdrawal in Azkaban and suffers it in silence, reminding himself over and over that he deserves this, that James is laid up in Saint Mungo's because of him so Snape has no right to complain that his head is splitting apart and his stomach is revolting against anything put in it and his heart is beating inside his chest like it's trying to break out. He hallucinates, too. He sees Harry, appearing outside the bars of his cell like some ghostly apparition but more solid than any ghost Snape's met. When the bars slide open, Snape moans and shakes his head, pressing himself into the corner of his cell, but Harry comes to him anyway, kneeling in front of him and taking Snape's hand in his. Manically, Snape wonders if Harry's hallucinations of Riddle ever felt so real, then remembers watching Harry thrown around and strangled by his hallucination and thinks he probably did, and an insane laugh escapes his throat as he realises that he has something in common with his son. Two things, because Harry's in Azkaban too, he remembers. Locked in a cell just like this, somewhere on the ground floor, staring blindly at his walls and trapped inside his own mind. Snape almost envies him that, thinks it might be easier to be trapped in his own mind than trapped in a body so desperately craving alcohol he can't have.

Shouldn't have, he thinks furiously. Alcohol made him a monster, alcohol made him put James in Saint Mungo's. (_You were sober then_, mutters a demon on his shoulder, _alcohol wouldn't have put James in Saint Mungo's._) He doesn't have any right to alcohol, nor to the Bond that he has with James, or the son that's holding his hand.

He jerks out of Harry's grip and presses the balls of both hands to his eyes, willing the hallucination away, but he feels Harry sit beside him, a warm presence firm against his side.

"Do you regret it?"

He lets out a bark of dry, humourless laughter. "Is that not obvious?"

"Do you promise you won't do it again?"

Snape lowers his hands slightly until they completely cover his face. "He'll probably get the Bond transferred to someone else, but if I ever get out, I swear to never lay a hand on him again."

Harry takes his hand, tugging it away from his face to hold it in both of his own, and stays there until Snape falls into a fitful sleep. He's gone when Snape wakes up.

* * *

**Elsewhere**

As a reaper, Lily gets twenty-four hours off a month. She could, if she wanted, hoard those twenty-four hours and take one twelve-day holiday a year, as some reapers do, or even not use them at all, which isn't uncommon in the older reapers who no longer care for such mortal ventures as holidays, but she doesn't. Instead, she takes her twenty-four hours, sometimes splitting it into two sets of twelve, and visits her son.

Visiting Harry is a two part expedition. First, she goes to Azkaban prison on earth to see his body. It's really all it is—a body that just barely has the presence of mind to eat when food is put in front of it. His soul, split into two parts, isn't in it. Half of it is in his Horcruxc, the location of which Lily doesn't know. Reapers track souls with an internal compass; souls without hosts—usually the dead or dying—are easier to find than those with hosts, but souls that have been split, a rarity thankfully, are very difficult to find because they cause a reaper's internal compass to spin, unable to decide where the soul in question is.

Fortunately for Lily, she knows the exact location of the piece of soul that's supposed to be in Harry's body so she doesn't need to rely on her soul compass.

Harry's half a soul lives in a homely three-bedroom house near the Lake District, a house he shares with Draco. It's one of twelve on a long street and Lily has to admit it's a nice house. It's spacious without being so large it feels empty with only two residents, it has a reasonable sized garden that's always well-maintained, and it has two bathrooms, the upstairs of which has a good sized bathtub and a shower with good water pressure. The master bedroom is furnished with a comfy queen sized bed, the second is made up as a study, and the third is set aside as a guest room. The living room is cosy and littered with photographs and ornaments to bring it life, and the kitchen is sizeable and well-equipped.

Lily despises the whole place. It's the mental equivalent of the prison cell Harry's body is in and his soul almost never leaves, even to venture into the garden. On one hand, she likes that. It's a link to reality, a suggestion that for all his adamant insistence that the world he's in his real, some part of him still recognises reality; his body is confined to his cell in Azkaban, so his soul remains confined to his home in Elsewhere.

On the other hand, it's sad that he's created an entire replica of planet earth and doesn't even explore it. She has, taking a twelve hour period early in its creation to venture from pole to pole with a reaper's highly useful ability to move from location to location with a mere thought, like Apparating but with less effort. So she knows the world is an exactly perfect replica of the real world... or at least, was in 1998. Since then, it hasn't changed in any great way. The seasons cycle, the people age and die and are born, but the twin towers remain standing in New York, the cities haven't grown, and everything from the intricacies of individual governments to the price of a pack of crisps is precisely the same.

She changes her clothes as she walks up the street towards Harry and Draco's house. Being a reaper she can control her physical form right down to a single hair, as well as create elaborately convincing illusions to encourage a person to move on with her rather than stay on earth as a spirit. That wasn't often necessary though; she's quite proud of being kind and approachable enough that the dead are usually more than willing to come with her to their destined afterlife. But some dead do have certain expectations of the things that reap them and she changes her clothes to fit their expectations. A smart black trouser suit is fine for reaping an elderly Christian woman, but it's not the sort of thing she wants to wear to visit her son, so her clothes change to jeans, a pair of boots, a fitted t-shirt and a jacket.

She doesn't knock when she reaches the house; as mother, she's been granted the right not to, and she walks into the house's front room to find Sirius Black lounging on a sofa with a butterbeer and his wand making a bunch of balloons bounce around the room. One of them zooms through her torso before he notices her and he vanishes the balloons as he gets up with an unusually serious expression, especially given that today is his birthday. Not that he looks any older than thirty-seven; if anything, he looks a little younger without the premature signs of aging that Azkaban and war had given him in life. It's the grace of death, of course; the spirit is able to affect it's appearance to some small degree and the dead are nearly always younger and prettier than they were in life. She knows her own appearance is less than honest, but she isn't going to keep the large red spot on her nose she unfortunately woke up with the day she died, nor the shadows under her eyes from the stress of the war. She has kept her stretch marks from pregnancy; she doesn't care one damn bit what the magazines or Petunia ever said—those marks are a sign of something great, not something she should be ashamed of.

"What's happened?" she asks Sirius.

"Reality, I think. A few days ago, and if it is I want you to take me to earth so I can haunt the bastard."

Her brow furrows but before she can ask what he's talking about, Harry stalks through from the kitchen, face twisting angrily at the sight of her.

"Where have you been?" he demands immediately. "I tried to send an owl to you days ago and it just came back, like always!"

"That's because owls cannot leave your imagination, Harry. I am a reaper, I've been out doing my work, as you well know, and—"

"Oh, give it a rest," he snaps. "I'm not in the mood for that crap today. James is in the hospital! Dad nearly killed him!"

Lily blinks at him. Never once in the history of Elsewhere has any harm befallen the souls there. The other people—fillers she calls them, the ones that are mere products of Harry's imagination to bring life to the world he made—endure the pitfalls of humanity and she knows people come every day to the hospital where Draco works, but everyone close to Harry seems completely immune to harm. She's never even known anyone to scrape a knee or get a papercut. In fact, the worst thing that occurs around Harry is...

... Snape's drinking, she realises. Something that she knows is a reality. When she discovered the Snape of Elsewhere was drinking excessively, it seemed out of place until she visited Snape in reality and found he too was drinking enough that his alcoholism was visible even to Harry and thus seeped through to affect the world of Elsewhere.

Which leaves her with the horrible feeling that if Snape has attacked James here, then there's a nasty chance he's done it in reality. Suddenly Sirius' words make sense.

"So you do care," Harry says a touch snidely, reading her expression. "Good to know you don't completely hate James."

"I don't hate James at all," she replies calmly. "I simply don't care for the figment of your imagination. I do care for the real James."

Harry chooses to ignore her words. "Dad's in Azkaban. They arrested him immediately and he's going through pretty bad withdrawal from the drink. James won't wake up and he's really badly hurt and I don't care how much you fell out, you're going to go see him!"

"I will," she agrees. "In reality."

For a moment it looks like Harry's going to lose his temper and yell at her, but then his shoulders slump and his expression droops and he crosses the space between them to lean his forehead on her shoulder and hug her tightly.

"He really hurt him, Mum," he says quietly. "Why'd he do that?"

She wraps her arms around him, pressing her cheek to his hair. "I don't know, sweetheart."

He hugs her a moment longer then pulls back. "You need to go see James."

"I will. Sirius, will you walk me out?"

Sirius nods, following after her as she leaves the house, but she doesn't leave Elsewhere immediately, instead gesturing for Sirius to walk with her down the street.

"What happened?" she asks without needing to clarify.

"Draco called Remus and me in a panic Saturday evening, said someone in Azkaban guard uniform turned up at their house, told them that Snape was in prison for assaulting James. Harry demanded details, listened to it, and then Draco gets a call from his supervisor saying they need him and Harry at the hospital to see James. They go—"

"Harry left the house?"

Sirius nods and continues, "Draco says they were at the hospital long enough to hear the healer repeat everything the guard told them, then Harry says he's going to see Snape and just vanishes." He stops halfway down the street, turning to face her fully. "The thing is, it wasn't just him. When he vanished, so did all the other people. Everyone but Draco, Remus, and me, as far as we could tell. And the clocks stopped."

"For how long?"

"The whole night, right until Harry turned up at home again the next morning. And that's another thing—he had to have been gone 'til past dawn, but until he came back the sky didn't change, then it just... poof," he says with a helpless shrug. "Suddenly it was morning. Why do you look so pleased?"

"He left," Lily tells him. "Harry returned to his body."

"And came back," he points out.

"But he _left_, Sirius. That means I can do it. I can convince him. Especially if I had help."

He smiles wanly and shakes his head. "I'm not helping, Lils. I stand with Remus on this. I don't want to go back to heaven and I definitely don't want him to go back to purgatory. I won't stop you, but I'm not helping."

"You always make my life difficult, Sirius Black."

"That's a lie," he retorts with false hurt. "I've done nothing but be a good friend to you."

"Good friends don't turn up at their friend's wedding with a drunk groom _or_ pretend to lose the ring _or_ spike the reception drinks with Inhibition Suppressing Potions."

He grimaces. "You're still holding a grudge about that?"

"It. Was. My. Wedding."

"I did apologise. Profusely."

"It doesn't mean I forgot or forgave. Now, I'm going to visit James before I start remembering other things about you that annoy me."

He cocks a grin. "Just think about all the things about me that you adore. You'll be fine."

She rolls her eyes, but there's a smile on her face when she vanishes.

*PSM*

She visits Elsewhere-James briefly, just to see what kind of state he's in, and then returns to earth to visit the real Saint Mungo's, where she's unhappy but not entirely surprised to find James unconscious with his torso heavily bandaged. She stays long enough to watch a nurse change the bandages and is sickened by the sight of jagged, spider-webbing wounds underneath that appear to be relying on natural healing, likely the result of a curse that resists magical cures. Bubbling with fury, she goes to Azkaban, this time going to a cell on the fourth floor where she finds Snape huddled on a hard bunk, a thin blanket doing little to ease his shivers as he sleeps fitfully. She thinks she hears James' name pass his lips more than once. His breakfast tray sits untouched on the table where she knows prisoner meals automatically appear. She can't find a scrap of sympathy for him.

*PSM*

It takes only a nod to Sirius when she returns to Elsewhere to confirm for him that James' condition is real and Sirius storms out Harry's house. She finds Harry in the kitchen, surrounded by cake ingredients and sifting flour into a bowl. She's not surprised; for reasons she hasn't yet figured out, he always cooks when she visits.

There's a cup of tea, still steaming, on the breakfast bar and she slips onto a stool and curls her hands around it, aware of the warmth without really feeling it. Being dead, temperatures don't really affect her.

"How are you, Harry?"

"Pissed off," he answer succinctly without looking up from the sieve, then sighs. "Disappointed. I _told_ Dad he had to stop drinking or he'd do something stupid. I just didn't think... and James is his friend!"

"He's his Slave. I don't think they're precisely friends."

"Oh, don't," Harry sighs. "Please, Mum, not today. It's Sirius' birthday and with everything... don't say things like that."

"I'm only saying the truth and you know it. In reality, James is Severus' Slave through an Animancupium Bond. They're only friends in your head."

"He still had no right to attack him like that!"

"No," she agrees, "he didn't."

"At least you're not saying that's just in my head," he mutters.

"That's because it's not. Severus has attacked James in reality. You know about it, so you've incorporated it into your fantasy world."

He rolls his eyes but doesn't argue with her and they fall into a semi-comfortable silence for a while, Lily watching Harry make up cookie dough. Only when Harry starts to separate it into dollops and lay it out on baking trays does he speak again.

"I put a curse on Dad."

"What curse?"

"One that will make him get hurt if he tries to hurt James. I know I shouldn't have, I know it's not nice, but I couldn't help it, I just didn't want him to hurt James again so I did it." He pauses and glances over guiltily. "Should I take it off?"

"That's up to you. It might not be entirely ethical to leave it on, but it might be a good idea. If James ever wakes up."

Harry looks away, returning to the cookies and saying quietly, "I hope so."

* * *

Thirty days later, Snape sits in an interrogation room and James, pale and wary but alive, sits opposite him.

"Things are going to change."

Snape nods.

"You're going to see Oliver more often and you're going to actually talk to him. You're going to get a job—a real job, not just fruitless research—and you're going to submit to Monitoring Spells for six months to check you're not drinking."

It stings his pride and something in him growls, maybe the demon on his shoulder telling him a drink would ease his wounded pride, and says he doesn't have to do this, that James isn't the Master in their relationship, _he_ is so why should he listen to this man's demands? But the shadow in James' eyes that faded after Voldemort died and Lucius was put in Azkaban is back now and Snape knows it's his fault, and when has his pride ever done him any good anyway? So he nods.

"If you drink, or assault me like that again, you'll spend forty years in Azkaban for grievous bodily harm and use of the dark arts. This isn't a personal bargain, Severus, it's a legal deal, and you're fucking lucky to get this much."

"I know." He swallows thickly. "Thank you."

James sits back in his seat and folds his arms. The lawyer sat next to him pushes a contract across the table and Snape signs it, then a guard takes him from the room and he goes through processing before being taken out to the Azkaban entrance. James is waiting for him and Snape stiffens when he opens his mouth to speak.

"It's Christmas," he says, which is a surprise to Snape. "You should see Harry before we leave. You always do today. It's already arranged with the guards."

He nods, surprised and grateful, and turns. He signs the guest book, gets looked over with a Secrecy Sensor even though Annabeth Parker only just checked him out, then he's lead through to the block where Harry is held. He sits on his bed, same as always, with Kiwi on his lap and gives no indication he knows Snape is there even when Snape speaks.

"Hello, Harry. It's Christmas," he says without offering any further sentiments. "I'm sorry I don't have a gift for you. I've... been an idiot."

A piece of Snape thinks that confessing his crime and his thirty days locked in the prison isn't much of a Christmas present, but he has little else to say and Harry doesn't speak, so he talks about assault and withdrawal and hallucinations until Annabeth says his time's up.

"I have to go now, Harry." A pause, like always, but not as long as he used to, because he doesn't hope as much anymore that Harry will reply. "I'll come see you again soon. And—I mean it, this time. James isn't the only person I've wronged because of drink. I'll visit more often again."

He means it, but he still doesn't promise it because he knows better than to make promises he doesn't know he can keep with a hundred percent surety.

* * *

**Spring 2004**

Snape's re-stocking the shelves behind the counter of Slug & Jiggers Apothecary when he hears the door open, the bell jingling annoyingly. He doesn't look around; if the customer needs help, they can ask. But he hears footsteps come up to the counter quickly.

"Oh, Severus, there you are."

Surprised, he turns, raising an eyebrow at the aging witch opposite him. "Minerva. Shouldn't you be at the school? I thought term didn't end until tomorrow."

"James has been turned into a duck."

There's a brief pause then, "You say that like it's a bad thing."

McGonagall scowls. "Severus, my Transfiguration teacher is a _duck_."

"Minerva, you taught the subject for forty years. If you can't change him back—"

"Of course I can't change him back," she interrupts. "I can't _find _him."

"Then perhaps you should go look for him instead of talking to me."

McGonagall draws herself up. "Severus Snape, you are infuriating," she snaps, and he struggles to ignore the sudden desire to look at the floor and scuff his shoes against the stones. Forty-four years old and this woman still manages to make him feel like a petulant schoolboy. "The classroom window was open when Miss Way transfigured him and he flew out it. The last anyone saw of him he was flying south."

Letting out an irritable sigh, Snape folds his arms over his chest and leans a hip against the counter. "You think he's flying to me."

"It seems likely given your Bond. I thought I should at least warn you so you don't decide to kill him and eat him when he turns up."

Snape snorts. "I don't kill my own food, Minerva. Use him for potion ingredients on the other hand..."

She doesn't look amused. He rolls his eyes. "I won't kill any ducks. If that's all, I do actually have work to do and presumably you need to go and punish the incompetent Miss Way."

*PSM*

"Out."

Hermione freezes just inside the door of the apothecary. Almost directly across from her is the counter, behind which a familiar man stands glaring at her. She feels like she's thirteen again and just walked into the Potions dungeon at Hogwarts.

"What?"

Snape stalks out from behind the counter and crosses the shop to stand in front of her, arms folded over his chest, eyes glowering.

"Get. Out."

Reminding herself that she's twenty-four and not thirteen, Hermione straightens her back and glares at him. "Why?"

His gaze drops from her eyes to the cardboard coffee cup held in one hand and then shifts pointedly to the open door next to her. She glances at it, or rather, at the sign on it declaring that no food or drink may be brought into the shop, and then back at Snape.

"It's a sealed container."

"It is not," Snape snaps, glaring at the cup lid, which has a small hole for drinking through. "Nor is it secure should you drop it. This is an apothecary, Miss Granger. I would have expected you to be intelligent enough to understand why this rule is implemented."

Instead of responding, she draws her wand and taps it to the cup. A blue shimmer appears around it and she pointedly tips the cup, showing that the liquid inside is now unable to get out.

"Satisfied?"

"Not particularly," Snape replies, but he turns and stalks back to the counter, snapping the partition down behind him then glaring across it at her. "What did you want?"

She approaches and sets her coffee down. "An antihistamine. Pollen is killing me."

Snape turns and takes a small vial of grass-coloured potion from one of the lower shelves then sets it on the counter. "A tea spoon in the morning will last all day; there's twenty-eight days worth. It's a galleon and six sickles."

"I'd best get two bottles to last me through the summer then."

"It doesn't keep that long. You'll need to buy a second one later."

She wrinkles her nose, which is pink to go with slightly blood shot eyes, in annoyance, but digs in her bag for her purse, handing over two galleons and taking her change. She slips purse and bottle into her bag, picks up her coffee, but pauses before leaving.

"Sir, could I ask you something?"

"Instructions are on the bottle, Granger."

"That's not it. I just... why do you work here?"

He stares at her until she feels her face start to grow hot and shifts. "It's just working in an apothecary seems beneath your skills, that's all," she elaborates. "I sort of assumed you'd go back to Hogwarts and take back the Potions position from Professor Slughorn. He left at the end of my last year."

"Granger, in the five years I taught you, did you ever once get the impression that I actually enjoyed trying to drill information into the thick skulls of the idiots that entered my classroom?"

"No," she admits. "But I don't get the impression you particularly enjoy this, either."

"It pays the bills," he says shortly. "If you're quite finished, kindly leave. I have to close up in ten minutes."

"Friendly as ever," she mutters, but turns and heads for the door, only to open it and almost trip over a duck that immediately charges inside. She lets out a startled cry and jumps aside, and the duck waddles across the floor. "Professor! A duck's just come in!"

Annoyance flickers across Snape's face, but not nearly as much as she expects, and rather than make any attempt to stop the animal, he bends over the counter to look down at it.

"You're lucky you didn't turn up ten minutes later."

Hermione stares. The duck quacks then flaps its wings and jumps up onto the counter. Snape glowers at it, but makes no move to dislodge the bird.

"Uh, professor?"

"I thought you were leaving, Granger."

"Well, yes, I just... does that duck belong to the store?"

"No. Potter, if you make a mess of the counter I won't take you to Minerva to get turned back."

Hermione gapes. "Is that James Potter?"

"Presumably," Snape answers, still glaring a the bird. He says nothing more until he realises she's still standing there, then sighs and elaborates, "Minerva McGonagall came by earlier to inform me he'd been transfigured by one of his students and flew off before anyone could catch him. I can't imagine any other duck would randomly wander into the store."

"But why would he fly all the way down to London to you?"

"I took his Animancupium Bond from Lucius Malfoy," he answers quietly, glancing towards the door as though worried someone else will hear. "As he currently is, the Bond would make his duck brain draw him right to me. Stop that," he adds to James, flicking a finger at the feathered head to stop him pecking at the till. "Just sit to one side and don't do anything until I'm finished, will you?"

Hermione watches with a smile as James waddles to the other end of the counter and sits himself down, quacking once more as if to say, 'Perfectly well behaved, see?', then she calls goodbye to them both and leaves again.

*PSM*

Snape Apparates to Hogsmeade when he's closed up the apothecary, James held in his arms, and walks the short distance up to the school. He sends a Patronus message to McGonagall and by the time he reaches the castle she's waiting on the front steps for him, corners of her lips twitching with amusement as she watches him approach.

"Not a word, Minerva."

"About?" she asks innocently. He glowers at her and sets James down on the top of the stairs.

"Turn him back then."

Still looking amused, McGonagall draws her wand and waves it over the duck, murmuring a spell. Nothing happens and she frowns then tries again with a different spell. Once more, nothing happens.

"Please tell me you can turn him back."

"Are you certain it's him?" McGonagall asks. "You haven't brought me a perfectly normal duck by any chance?"

"It walked into the store and followed me around the entire time I was closing up. I highly doubt it's a regular duck."

James quacks in agreement.

"Bring him inside. Perhaps Miss Way can return him to his proper self."

*PSM*

"Ah... Severus?"

Snape sits in the low, worn armchair in one of Saint Mungo's outpatient psychiatric rooms and then puts James the duck on the floor between his feet, nudges him once, and orders, "Stay."

James sits. Snape looks across at the middle-aged, middle-sized, ginger haired man opposite him. In demeanour, Oliver Castle reminds Snape uncomfortably of Arthur Weasley, albeit minus the Muggle infatuation and hoard of children. Still, over the years Snape's been forced to grudgingly admit that the man is good at his job. And by 'good at his job' he means that Oliver hasn't refused to continue acting as Snape's psychologist because he's irredeemably rude and impossibly difficult.

Not that Oliver doesn't find him rude and difficult, just not unbearably so.

"It's James," Snape says by way of explanation and Oliver sits up, his expression tightening. For once, Snape's pleased to elicit this tense, worried reaction from Oliver because he's absolutely secure in the knowledge that he's done nothing wrong and he feels an unfamiliar spark of smug pride at that knowledge. It must show on his face, because Oliver's expression becomes graver.

"Severus, explain yourself."

"It was one of his students. Misplaced transfiguration. Minerva couldn't reverse it so I'll be brewing a restorative draught when I get home. He should be fine."

Oliver blinks, looks down at James, then back at Snape and leans back in his seat, frowning slightly. "Are you proud because you can help him?"

Snape snorts. "Restorative draughts are easy; I could brew it in my sleep. That's nothing to take pride from."

"Then why the self-satisfaction?"

"Because I've done nothing _wrong_."

Oliver relaxes slightly and smiles lightly. "I'm glad to hear that, Severus. You thought I wouldn't," he adds, noticing Snape's expression. Snape crosses one leg over the other and taps his fingers against his knee, resisting the urge to fold his arms over his chest, knowing it would reveal his defensiveness and not wishing too. He thinks Oliver figures it out anyway.

"Shouldn't you be telling me how I should take pride in success rather than in a lack of failure?"

"Lack of failure is success."

Snape can't help letting out a derisive snort.

"Why do you disagree?"

Snape draws his wand and puts a Deafening Spell on James. He's not sure how aware James is of what's going on around him and what he might remember when he's human again, but Snape's not about to risk having him listen in on what's supposed to be a confidential conversation. He'd only brought him because James refused to leave him alone and McGonagall said it was immoral to shut him in a cage.

"One shouldn't be proud of doing nothing. Inaction shouldn't be praised."

"Then you think you shouldn't be praised for not drinking?"

Snape scowls. "My not drinking isn't inaction. It requires effort and strength of will."

Oliver nods. "Are you tempted into inaction by this?" he asks, gesturing to James.

"What do you mean?"

"You could not brew the restorative draught."

Snape looks horrified at the suggestion. "Absolutely not. I would have to care for him. Feed him, clean up after him. I have _no_ interest in leaving him as he is."

Oliver looks vaguely amused at the vehemence of his assertion, but he moves the conversation along.

*PSM*

Snape goes straight to his lab when he returns home. He sets James on a stool then draws from his pocket the Mandrake cuttings that he got from Professor Sprout before leaving Hogwarts, though he got them only after spending fifteen minutes listening to her detail her retirement plans for the end of the year. Snape had glowered and wondered how out of practice he must be that he couldn't even glare one old lady into silence.

The potion takes a total six hours to brew and four of those require it to sit and simmer before the final ingredient is added. While it does, Snape enlarges a bowl until it's the size of a paddling pool and fills it with water, then sits on the sofa in the living room and tosses bits of bread into the water as James paddles around.

"I am half tempted to leave you like this," he remarks, watching the duck. "Even if I would have to care for you, at least I don't have to listen to you talk."

James dives his head under the water, sticking his tail feathers in the air, and wiggles his butt at Snape. Snape chucks a bit of bread at him.

"Sod you too, feather brain."

*PSM*

"Watch it!" Snape snaps the next day.

Prongs manages to avoid trampling the plants that Snape is harvesting under the light of the moon and snickers, tossing his head as Snape mutters insults under his breath. This particular species of nightshade only blooms once a year, on the night of the first full moon after midsummer. James insisted on accompanying him and Snape knew it was easier just to let him instead of arguing, but he doesn't want to lose any of them to Prongs' trampling hooves.

"Can't you go and find some squirrels to torment or something?" he grumbles, snipping a plant, then gets a light nudge of antlers in his back, but he hears the canter of hooves moving away from him. He focuses on the plants, checking each one before cutting it and placing it in the basket floating alongside him.

He never sees the wolf. He hears it only moments before it leaps and then he's tumbling forwards, screaming as claws rake through his clothes and skin and jaws clamp down on his shoulder, pain lancing through him and hot, wet blood spilling over his skin. He's dimly aware of pounding hooves then the weight on his back is thrown off. Something large jumps over him and he listens to the growls and whimpers and thumps as he struggles to drag himself away. Pain and blood loss makes his vision waver and he has no idea what he's doing, just knows that he needs to get away from the danger. Then—

"Severus!"

Footsteps and a body dropping to its knees beside him. Hands touch his back and he can't help the choked cry of pain. James is swearing and Snape feels hands wrap around his arms, clinging tight enough to bruise, then the world condenses, spins, and vanishes, and the next thing he knows there's cold, hard floor underneath him and shouting voices and the smell of hospital. His stomach retches, he vomits, and then, gratefully, passes out.


	2. Summer, Part 1

**Summer, Part 1**

Oliver smells like lavender and white musk. Snape's always known this. His sense of smell has always been keen, but the scent of his psychiatrist is one of those things Snape ignored from the beginning. It is, after all, irrelevant.

Now, however, it fills his nostrils and mingles with the overwhelming smell of cloyingly sweet perfume that the receptionist wears, which was unbearable even before The Incident.

His lips curl in a snarl at the thought of it. Oliver shifts in his seat and Snape resists the urge to snarl deeper, instead forcing his facial muscles to relax back into a blank expression. A week. A bare week and already he's acting like an animal. He hates it. Loathes it. Loathes himself. Of course, he hated himself for years. Most of his life, even, but only in the past week has he come to realise that it's a self-hatred he grew comfortable with. He knows he hates himself, accepts it, and carries on regardless. Except, he admits, when the self-loathing overwhelmed him enough that he tried to drown it in alcohol.

But now... this is a whole new level of self-hatred, a twist he never could have imagined. He's always despised werewolves. Initially just with the primal fear of monsters that prey on humans, and then after the incident in his sixth year he feared them with a far more invasive fear of coming face to face with death in the form of snarling jaws and snapping teeth. To now be one of the very monsters he despises creates a form of self-hatred that makes him want to rip off his very skin. It isn't something that alcohol will help, he knows that instinctively, because the alcohol was always about dulling his mind to the hatred and knowledge of his flaws, making him forget what it is that he hates so much. This, on the other hand, is something that makes him suddenly understand James' penchant for self-harm. He's always scoffed at James' descriptions of needing to bleed out the darkness inside himself, how he felt that cutting himself would somehow get rid of the taint that Lucius and his commands left on him, but Snape gets it now, because a part of him feels like if he only makes himself bleed enough then maybe he can get rid of the disease riddling his veins.

"How has it affected your relationship with James?"

Snape looks the other man over, taking in the relaxed posture, the open patience in his eyes, the gentle set of his mouth, and knows that James hasn't told him. He feels a coil of apprehension at what Oliver's expression will be when Snape tells him, but wonders why James hasn't. He's had a week to do it and normally doesn't hesitate to inform Oliver if Snape abuses their Bond at all, either by telling him himself or allowing his own psychiatrist, Ryma, to inform Oliver. While other issues retain the healer-patient confidentiality, their Bond is something that Ryma and Oliver needed to confer on to ensure that Snape isn't abusing it and James isn't hiding such abuses.

"I told him to kill me."

It's everything Snape expects. Oliver jerks, upsetting his notes, and his eyes go wide, mouth dropping, face turning pale.

"Severus!" he manages to gasp, and Snape looks away, scowling. The shame burns in his chest, making him almost regret mentioning the incident at all, though he knows Oliver will have found out eventually from James or Ryma anyway and then called him in to discuss it. Even so, he feels crappy about the whole thing. Mostly about telling James to do it in the first place; he was surprised at how much he disliked seeing James twitch and tear up as he tried to fight the order, the pain obvious on his face and in the tense lines of his muscles. But he's also angry for his own cowardice. When James gave in and started to strangle him—strangle because James knew he had to obey, but could at least do it in a way that would take enough time to make the healers' monitoring spells alert them that something was wrong and come rushing in to stop James before he actually killed Snape—Snape realised that as much as he loathes himself for what he's become, he doesn't want to die, so he retracted the order. He hasn't seen James since.

*PSM*

James ignores the sound of the front door opening. He ignores Snape's sigh, his footsteps crossing the sitting room, and his figure in the kitchen doorway. He hears more than sees Snape slump against the door frame and ignores the Bond telling him that Snape is sore and tired and needs comfort. He takes the chicken breasts from the oven, stabs them with a knife to check they're done then sticks them back in for another five minutes. He stirs, somewhat unnecessarily, the vegetables being steam cooked over the boiling potatoes then lifts the pot briefly to peer in at the potatoes themselves, and lowers the stove flame slightly so they don't overcook before the chicken's done. The gravy is mixing itself, but he still looks into it like it holds the secrets of the universe.

"I'm sorry."

James doesn't turn, but he drops both hands to his sides and goes still. Snape sounds more weary and tired than James has heard since he quit drinking.

"I'm sorry I told you to kill me. It was out of line and unfair and... I shouldn't have done it. It was a breach of your trust and an abuse of the Bond, and I'm sorry."

He means it, James can feel that much through the Bond, which is a small comfort. He expects the apology—he knew Snape was seeing Oliver before his release from the hospital and Oliver would have strong-armed Snape into giving one—but it's nice to know that at least it's genuine.

It doesn't mean James is going to forgive him, because it isn't just that Snape used the Bond against him, it's that he used it to make him try and commit murder. Not just murder either, but suicide as well because James would have died when Snape did. It's an abuse almost worse than Lucius' manipulations, because James expected those kind of orders from Lucius, and because Lucius had never made him do something that would have killed himself. But then, in all the time James was Bound to him, Lucius was never consumed with such overwhelming fear, anger, self-hatred, and pain that James felt in Snape when he recovered enough to realise what happened and what he'd become.

He takes out the chicken again, decides it's done well enough, and kicks the oven door shut as he moves over to the two plates waiting on the side. He puts a breast on each then banishes the tray to the sink. He kills the flames on the stove, dishes out the vegetables and potatoes evenly, then pours the gravy, putting less on Snape's plate than he knows the other man likes, just to be spiteful. When it's done, he takes up his own plate and turns, still ignoring Snape, and heads through to the dining room. He sits and starts eating, Snape joins him a minute later, and they finish their meal in tense silence.

*PSM*

"I've never wanted to die."

Snape opens his eyes and looks across his bedroom to the second bed sat barely a foot from Snape's own. It becomes clear early on that nothing short of a direct order will keep James from creeping into Snape's bedroom when the fancy took him, just wanting to be physically close to his Master, but Snape isn't supposed to issue orders and he isn't about to share his bed with James Potter. Initially James settles for sleeping on the floor, but when Oliver finds out about that his eyes very nearly bug out of his head and he suggests putting twin beds in Snape's room instead.

James currently sits on his with his legs crossed and facing towards Snape, but his eyes are on his hands, fiddling with a loose thread on the bed.

"The worst thing Lucius did to me, other than the whole soul binding thing, was when I stole his wand once and used the Cruciatus on him. That was when I found out about the wards protecting Malfoys from attacks in their own house, but afterwards he strung me up by my wrists for three days. He didn't feed me, barely gave me water, and tortured me of course. It was bad. He used a Whipping Hex on my back and it cut through right to the bone. The wounds got infected and I spent a week fighting the fever and it didn't help that even then he used the Cruciatus on me. I've never felt so awful in my life and to be honest dying then probably would have been a mercy, I felt that shit, but I didn't _want_ to die."

He pauses, lifts a hand to rub at tired eyes, and then looks at Snape. "I get why you wanted to die. I do, because I could feel it, but I don't want to die and if you ever ask me to do that again I will do it with the slowest acting poison I can find, and I will use the intervening months to string you up by your wrists and torture you so that you can feel some of the anguish I feel about being forced to commit suicide."

Snape's never been afraid of James Potter. He's hated him, wished him dead on more occasions than he cares to know, and wished to kill him most of those times, but he's never been afraid of him. Not even in school when James and Sirius ganged up on him and Snape knew he wouldn't be able to avoid whatever humiliation or pain they intended to inflict on him.

But James does scare him now and he doesn't doubt for a second that James would do exactly as he says. Something in Snape howls with protest at the idea of James dominating him in anyway and he's not sure if it's the Bond or the wolf, or perhaps it's both, but he squashes down the instinct to sneer and snarl and respond with a threat of his own, to remind James that Snape is the alpha, not him.

Instead, he nods.

"It won't happen again," he promises. James nods and the tension that's filled the house since Snape got home dissolves.

"How are your wounds?"

"Sore. My back itches."

"That a salve for it?" James asks, nodding to the jar of pale yellow cream on Snape's bedside table. "Want me to rub it in?"

Snape hesitates, then: "If you wouldn't mind."

James hops off his bed with an exaggerated sigh as Snape pushes his bedcovers down and rolls onto his front. "Such is the life of a slave. Lumped with the most unfortunate and disgusting tasks. Cooking dinner, rubbing cream onto wounds. Next you'll have me feeding you grapes and fanning you with giant leaves."

"If you're offering..."

"As long as you don't expect me to wear a loincloth," he remarks, unscrewing the jar, scooping out a generous dollop and then gently smearing it over the healing wounds on Snape's back.

Snape's lip curls. "Thank you for that scarring image. I'll have nightmares for weeks."

"Excuse you, I would look brilliant in a loincloth. I look brilliant in anything; it's a curse being this handsome, I tell you. But loincloths are draughty, you realise. Impractical."

"Please stop talking about loincloths."

James smirks. "Sure. Your preference probably runs more towards bikinis anyway."

"Potter!" Snape turns his head to level a glare at the other man. "That is a thoroughly disturbing image."

"Even if I took a Genderbend Potion?"

Snape snorts, settling his head down again and closing his eyes. "I imagine you would be a terribly ungainly woman. Not to mention far more interested in your own breasts than anything else."

"Quite possibly, though I object to the ungainly thing. I would be a gorgeous and perfectly gainly woman. Men would be falling all over themselves for me. Women, too."

"Keep telling yourself that, James," Snape murmurs. "If they're not falling for you as a man, they wouldn't as a woman."

"What do you know about whether people are falling for me? I could have hordes of people desperate to bed me at Hogsmeade, banging on the castle doors, tripping over themselves to surround me when I deign to grace them with my presence, begging Minerva to let them in so they can provide ample distraction from the tedious work of marking student assignments."

He rubs in the last of Snape's salve and draws his wand, murmuring a spell to clean the mess from his fingers then looking down at the now unconscious man. "At least I know what to talk about next time you can't sleep," he mutters, and gets up to go to his own bed.

*PSM*

Snape shoves away his plate with a faint sneer and picks up his coffee instead, sipping it and then holding the mug just in front of his face, letting the scent fill his nose in an attempt to block out every other smell in Diagon Alley—unwashed humans, wood smoke, a faint mix of herbs and preservatives coming from the apothecary, cooked and uncooked foods from the cafe he sits outside of. A bad cafe, he deems, which charges far too much for it's poor cuisine. He knew it was a bad cafe before and normally takes his lunch at the Leaky Cauldron, but the moment he steps inside the pub today he's almost overwhelmed by the scent of alcohol and knows he won't be able to sit and eat there without cracking and falling off the wagon. Maybe he can go back in future, but his emotional state is still too volatile after The Incident to risk putting himself around alcohol. The cafe he chooses instead is the only other food place in Diagon Alley, but he already knows he's going to have to get his lunch elsewhere in future. The food is simply too terrible to stomach. Even the coffee is barely drinkable.

"Severus!"

He looks around at the sound of James' voice and frowns as the other man comes down the alley and joins him at his table.

"What are you doing here?"

"Thought I'd come join you for lunch on your first day back at work. I thought you normally ate at the Cauldron?"

"It smells."

"Does it? I didn't notice. Of what?"

"Alcohol."

"Oh," James says. "You alright?"

Snape glowers at him. James shrugs. "Are you going to eat that?"

Snape shakes his head and James pulls the plate towards, picking up the chicken sandwich and taking a large bite out of it. Snape watches him chew, swallow, and grimace, then declare, "This tastes like crap."

"Hence why I'm not eating it."

James eyes the sandwich for a moment then, to Snape's astonishment, takes another bite. He notices Snape's expression, shrugs, and swallows. "I'm hungry."

"Clearly. Don't ask me for a Stomach Settler when it makes you sick later."

"I'll live. How long you got left of your break?"

Snape glances at his watch. "Twenty minutes."

James nods then gets an expression of remembrance on his face. Still chewing, he puts the sandwich down and digs in a pocket, pulling out a slightly crumpled envelope and handing it over. Snape sets down his coffee and takes it, vaguely recognising the handwriting on the front then realising why when he turns it over and sees the Hogwarts crest in the wax on the back.

"What's this?"

James shrugs. Snape opens it and withdraws the letter inside, eyebrows rising as he reads it over, then glances up at James.

"Minerva's offering me the Defence post for a year."

James doesn't look surprised. "I wondered who she'd offer that too. Deanna's having her baby in August, wants a year off to look after it. You going to take it?"

Snape sets down the letter and rubs at his palm. "I have a job."

He doesn't mention that he's not sure how much longer he'll have that job. Juniper Culpeper, his boss, greets him with a handshake that morning and his silver ring leaves a scorch mark on Snape's palm, instantly identifying him as a werewolf. Culpeper pales and stutters something about equal rights, but Snape has the feeling Culpeper is searching for any reason to fire him. Apparently a history of alcoholism and working for Voldemort is fine, but being infected by a monster isn't.

"It's only a year. Culpeper can hire you back afterwards, can't he?"

Snape doubts that, but he picks up his coffee again. "Did you suggest this to Minerva?"

"No. I thought you told her before that you never wanted to teach again."

"I told her I never wanted to teach Potions again."

"So you don't mind teaching Defence?"

Snape drinks his coffee and watches James finish the last of the sandwich before answering. "I'm not sure," he admits. "I would have jumped on the chance if Dumbledore had offered it, but that was when I thought teaching was the only opportunity I had."

"I don't know why you think it's so terrible. I enjoy it."

"You enjoy people."

"It's not like working in the apothecary lets you avoid people," James points out. "You have to be polite to everyone that comes in."

For certain levels of polite, Snape thinks. He manages to get away with a small degree of rudeness, though he now wonders if Culpeper might take that as an excuse to fire him.

"But I don't have to put up with multitudes of children every day."

"C'mon, it can't be that bad. You managed it for what, fifteen years? And you already admitted you'd prefer teaching Defence to Potions, so what's the problem?"

Snape slides the letter off the table and slips it in his pocket. "I'll think about it," he says by way of answer and drains the last of his coffee. "I should get back to the store."

*PSM*

Hermione leans back in her chair and lifts her arms over her head, stretching the knots out of her back that come from being bent over a desk filling in paperwork for hours. She twists her neck, wincing when it cracks, and gets to her feet just as the office door opens to let in Enfys Sayer, Hermione's bigender co-worker and best friend, today identifying as male and dressed in a sharp navy three piece suit and a matching lightweight over-robe. Hermione envies Enfys that—no matter what gender zie felt, zie always wore the smartest, most fashionable clothes available and Hermione believes it isn't actually possible for zir to look bad. She's even seen zir thoroughly hungover and still looking better than Hermione does most days.

"Darling, do _not_ go out in the hall," zie advises, blocking the way to the door and clutching a load of files in front of zir.

"What's happened this time?"

"Werewolf. He's standing in front of the registry office glaring at the door. I asked him if he needed help, nice as you please, and he growled at me." Zie shudders dramatically. "I know he's part animal, but I think he must have been unpleasant even before."

She gives a wan smile. "Might be newly turned and still adjusting. Malorie mentioned that a werewolf was imprisoned after the last full moon for attacking someone. I'm getting a coffee and doughnut; did you want something?"

"Just a coffee. Gotta watch my figure," zie says with a grin. Hermione laughs and zie kisses her cheek before moving past to zir own desk and she heads to the door. "Just watch out for the greasy grouch," zie calls after her.

*PSM*

Snape glares at the door in front of him. He knows he's got no choice about registering as a werewolf or he'll end up in Azkaban, and as he was treated at Saint Mungo's the Ministry is already aware of him so he can never avoid it, but that doesn't mean he's any happier about it. Registering means it's real. It means he can't pretend it didn't happen or that, by some miracle, he wasn't actually infected, and it means that once he registers, anyone can find out about him.

He hears a door further down the hall open but pays no attention to it until he hears a slight gasp. He glances over and wishes he'd entered the registry office five seconds ago. Hermione Granger stands outside the door to the Office of House Elf Services, looking at him with very obvious pity. He scowls, looks away, and enters the registry office. He doesn't want anyone else feeling sorry for him, no matter how much he wallows in his own self-pity.

The registry office is lightly lit and smells mostly of parchment and ink. A single desk sits in the right-centre of the room, opposite a row of chairs and in front of a second door, while a filing cabinet stands in the far corner. The desk is manned by a middle-aged, dumpy woman with short, greying-blonde hair sticking out at all angles from her head, giving her the appearance of having been hit by lightning. She looks up at Snape when he enters and doesn't seem put off by his dark scowl.

"Welcome to the Werewolf Registry Office. How can I help you?"

He glowers at her. "I need to register," he growls, the words like bile in his mouth. She just nods and gets up, going to the file cabinet, opening the top draw and pulling out three sheets of parchment. She takes them back to her desk, taps the pages with her wand and mutters a spell to make them stiffen, then picks up a self-inking quill and holds out both to him.

"Have a seat and fill this in. Feel free to ask for help if you need it."

He takes it, holding the parchment as though it's coated with poison. She doesn't seem to notice, just sits back down and returns to scribbling away at whatever she was doing before he entered. He turns, goes to the row of chairs and sits, crossing one leg over the other and resting the parchment on his leg. The top of the first page, unsurprisingly, asks for his name. He hesitates to fill it in. He doesn't want this. He wants to go home, crawl into bed, stick his head under a pillow and pretend The Incident didn't happen.

But he can't. For one, James promised to hex him if he comes back without doing this, never mind that he has until his first full moon—another ten days—to register, and then drag Snape back and watch him fill the form in. But also because the itch of a healing wound in his right shoulder reminds him uncomfortably that The Incident did happen and no amount of pretending is going to make it otherwise.

Sighing, he puts quill to parchment and begins writing.

*PSM*

Hermione has two cups of coffee floating alongside her and is just licking the doughnut icing from her fingers as she leaves the lift and almost walks into Snape. She gives him a wry smile and he glowers at her. "Been busy telling everyone that the greasy git finally got his just desserts?"

She blinks, confused for a moment, then realises what he's talking about and folds her arms over her chest, frowning at him. "If I didn't tell the whole school about Professor Lupin when I was fourteen, I think I'm certainly old enough now not to be so immature as to gossip about you. Honestly, what on earth makes you think I'd go running around telling people you're a werewolf?"

His lip curls in a snarl but she gets the impression it's directed at himself and what he is rather than at her. "Lupin should never have told his secret to a student. It does explain your grade for that year, however."

Her mouth drops and her arms fall, hands clenching into fists at her side. "How _dare_ you suggest that! As if I would ever blackmail a teacher, and more importantly I would _never_ take a grade I hadn't rightly earned! And for your information, Snape, Lupin never told me anything. I figured out he was a werewolf myself; he never even knew I knew."

Snape merely raises an eyebrow. "You figured it out."

"There's no need to sound so sceptical; wasn't that your intention?"

He frowns then, brow furrowing. "My intention?"

"You set the werewolf essay, the first class you covered for him even though we weren't due to start werewolves for months. You set that essay to try and make someone realise what Professor Lupin was so they'd tell everyone else and get him sacked."

"Why didn't you tell everyone?" he asks, then feels a slight flush in his cheeks as he realises he's as good as admitted it. The lift of Hermione's chin says she's realised as well.

"Because he was a good teacher and being a werewolf didn't change that. Clearly that was a reflection on him and not werewolves in general or you wouldn't be so rude," she says, and stalks past him. He smacks the call button for the lift that moved on while they spoke and turns to scowl down the corridor at her. She doesn't glance back and he watches her disappear into one of the offices before turning away, folding his arms over his chest and impatiently waiting for the lift. To think, he spent ten years thinking she wasn't actually smart enough to figure it out despite thinking back then that if anyone would do it, she would.

Not that he'll ever admit it.

*PSM*

"Ah, James! Just the man I was after."

James' arm is grabbed the moment he enters the ballroom where his dance classes are held and he doesn't fight as Eric, one of the two instructors, pulls him over to the other side of the room.

"We've got a new member today," Eric tells him. "Lovely lady, but she doesn't have a partner with her. I told her it was no problem as we had a dancer with no partner. She's not from the beginner's class, but she says she's an experienced dancer looking to get back into it. Zoe's with her now, here we are. Narcissa, this is James. James, meet Narcissa."

James sees his own surprise mirrored on Narcissa Black's face as she turns to him. He hasn't seen her since Voldemort's downfall and has no idea what she's been doing since. He only ever spares her a thought during therapy sessions when talk of Lucius sometimes leads to talk of Narcissa. She looks much the same as she did back then, except for the few new lines on her face.

He recovers from his surprise first. "Ms Black," he greets with a dry mouth.

"Mr Potter," she responds curtly.

"You two know each other, excellent!" says Zoe, Eric's wife and the second instructor. "That's everyone here now, darling," she adds to Eric. "Shall we start?"

"Let's."

They move away, drawing the attention of the rest of the people in the ballroom. As they say which dance they'll be starting with James looks at Narcissa, clearing his throat.

"If, uh, if you prefer, Zoe and Eric won't mind swapping partners."

She lifts her eyes to meet his and he drops his gaze quickly, then remembers that he's not Lucius' slave any more and doesn't have to submit to Narcissa, and flicks his eyes back up to hers.

"It's no problem for me," she says, leaving it open for him to take up his own offer. He nods.

"Okay. That's... okay."

*PSM*

She's a good dancer, he finds out. Better than him certainly, though Zoe and Eric have a few pointers to give. Narcissa seems to take them as personal insults and her obvious determination to show the instructors how much of an expert she is helps James feel a little less awkward. Knowing his own performance affects hers, he focuses on the steps and motions rather than the fact that his partner once hated him for things beyond his control and, for all he knows, still does. He has no way of knowing as they barely speak to each other as they dance.

As is common, he strips his robe off halfway through the lesson when he's grown hot, rolling up his shirt sleeves and taking a drink between dances. He thinks nothing of it until he rejoins Narcissa and they get into position and her eyes instantly fix on the scars on his arm. The Dark Mark faded after Voldemort's death to leave only faint black scars behind, but before it did he took a knife to the tattoo in a fit of anger and depression, leaving a multitude of raised pink and white tissue littering his forearm. He's grown used to them over the years, but he knows they still shock people the first time they see them.

"I can cover that," he offers in a mutter.

She looks surprised, then: "That won't be necessary. I would rather not have my dance partner faint from heat stroke in mid-step."

* * *

**Elsewhere**

"Well done, Harry!"

Lupin's congratulations are accompanied by a cheer from Sirius and a warm smile from Draco. On the floor Harry, in the form of a small, dark fox, hops up and down twice before losing his coordination and staggering.

"You'll get the hang of it," Lupin tells him. "It takes some getting used to being on four legs. Sirius had a terrible time of it."

"Hey, at least I did a better job than Prongs," Sirius says. "He could barely stand up."

"I wonder why you never tried before now," Draco remarks, crouching as Harry comes up to him and scratching behind his ears.

"He did try," Sirius answers, "when he was fourteen. He could just never find his animal and the potion made him seize."

"Maybe he was too young, despite his power."

"We did it at that age."

"It hardly matters now," Lupin says, but his expression is thoughtful. "Can you manage to turn yourself back, Harry?"

Harry takes one more pat from Draco then trots away a short distance and transforms into his human self again, grinning triumphantly. "I wish I had learnt it at fourteen. Would have been useful for sneaking around Hogwarts."

"It's not like you needed help with that," Draco remarks dryly. "You could turn invisible and you spent—" he cuts himself off from saying 'a year hiding in the castle' and instead finishes, "enough time sneaking around Hogwarts."

"Don't make it sound like I was the only one," Harry retorts. "You were with me most of the time."

Draco's mouth curls into a pleased smile. "Yes, I was."

Harry grins at him, then says, "I'm going exploring," and turns back into a fox, trotting out of the living room and into the kitchen, where they hear his claws clicking against the tiled floor. When they've heard his footsteps move into the hall and the stairs creak, Sirius turns to Lupin.

"What was that look when we mentioned trying the transformation before?"

Lupin glances towards the door to the hall and lowers his voice when he speaks. "I think perhaps Voldemort stopped him being able to find his animal. From what Lily told us," he elaborates at Sirius and Draco's confused looks, "by the time Harry tried the Animagus transformation, he already had half of Voldemort's soul in him. It's possible that with two souls, his body couldn't find the one animal it was supposed to turn into."

"Huh. Sounds plausible, I guess," Sirius muses.

"It doesn't really matter now," Draco says, voice sharper than it need be. "Harry's done the transformation so we don't need to talk about Voldemort or that world."

"Of course," Lupin agrees. Sirius says nothing.

* * *

Snape knows James is going to speak before he actually opens his mouth because the other man spends fifteen minutes systematically shredding the wrapper of a Honeydukes chocolate bar, effectively destroying Snape's ability to focus on his book.

"Narcissa Black was at my dance class this evening."

Snape's honestly surprised to hear that. Snape hasn't thought of Narcissa in a while and has seen her only once since Voldemort's downfall. After Harry's imprisonment, Snape took charge of everything he owned, including his inheritance from Sirius, which included Grimmauld Place. Given that Harry doesn't need or want it and Snape and James house-share, Snape sold the Black Family home. Narcissa bought it and Snape met the woman only the once, when the documents were signed.

The few times he's remembered her since then is only to wonder how she's coping with the imprisonment of her ex-husband and death of her son. Occasionally he debates visiting her, but they were never really friends like he was with Lucius and he always decides it's best not to.

"We partnered," James continues, now pushing the shredded wrapper pieces into a small mountain on the side table by his armchair. "She didn't have anyone and you know the numbers have been odd since Marilyn lost her leg, so Zoe and Eric partnered us."

"I expect that was..."

"Weird? You'd think, wouldn't you? I thought it would be but..." He puts his hand over the mini-mountain and spreads the wrapper across the table. "It wasn't, and that was odd. She used to hate me. I think she blamed me for ruining her marriage."

"In essence, you did."

James shakes his head, finally leaving the wrapper alone to lean back in his chair, one hand drifting to his collar and rubbing at it. "Lucius ruined their marriage, not me. Narcissa was a victim of him and his actions just as much as I was. It was just easier for her to hate me than to hate Lucius, Ryma thinks."

"Sounds reasonable," Snape remarks, opening his book again. James takes the hint and says nothing more.

*PSM*

Snape's brewing the Wolfsbane when his lab door opens and James sticks his head in. "Minerva's in the fireplace, wants a word with you."

"I'm busy, tell her to call back."

James vanishes and Snape continues working. He tries not to think about the fact that for once he will be sampling this particular potion. He brews it every month as part of his work for the apothecary, but this month it's for himself as well, though that knowledge is something he only acknowledges at the back of his mind. He still hasn't come to terms with what he is and he doubts he will until the first time he actually transforms.

He hears the door open again and speaks without looking around. "I told you I'm busy, James."

"Is it a new potion?" says a familiar woman's voice and he pauses in grinding wormwood leaves to look around.

"Minerva. No. Why?"

"Then I'm not concerned about talking to you while you work." She moves across the room, pulls a stool out from under his work bench and sits, then notices him still watching her. "I know you're capable of multi-tasking, Severus."

Deciding not to respond to the remark, he turns back to his work. "What did you want?"

"To discuss the Defence Against the Dark Arts post. Do you plan to take it?"

Snape twists the pestle unnecessarily hard. "I take it James hasn't told you what happened."

"About the attack? I know of it. I'm sorry, Severus."

He ignores her pity. "Then I don't see why you're asking about the post."

There's a short pause during which he scatters the crushed plant into the cauldron and takes up his stirring rod.

"You're right," McGonagall says, and Snape doesn't manage to hide a jerk of his hand. "Clearly it's a bad idea to consider hiring a man with such poor memory."

Snape jerks his head around but doesn't stop stirring the potion. "There is _nothing_ wrong with my memory."

She raises her eyebrows. "Really? Then why is it you think being a werewolf will stop me wanting to hire you when it didn't stop me working with Remus Lupin?"

"Albus hired Lupin. You had no choice but to work with him," Snape points out, looking back to his cauldron.

"And if your memory isn't failing you, you'll recall that I had no objections to that. Really, Severus, you didn't actually think this would stop me wanting to hire you?"

His silence say everything and she clucks her tongue. "Well, now we've cleared that up, you can answer me. Do you want the job or not?"

He answers with a question of his own. "Do you honestly think I'm suited to it, diseased or not?"

"Why wouldn't I? I know you're qualified, I know you want it—or at least, you did ten years ago—and I know you're a competent teacher. That said, if you do take it I expect you to be a... fairer... teacher than you were before. I'm not Dumbledore and I won't let you treat the students as awfully as he did. I'm sure you'll still manage to favour the Slytherins, but I won't let you be such a foul teacher that you become a student's worst fear."

He scowls at the reminder of Neville Longbottom's Boggart, but he also remembers the lecture she gave him all those years ago and he's older and wiser now, enough so that he'll admit that being someone's worst fear—especially someone like Neville Longbottom who, even at thirteen, had a great deal of things to be afraid of—said more about him than it did about Neville.

He also knows that McGonagall's right about Dumbledore's leniency towards his behaviour and knows the woman well enough to be certain that she'll stick by her word about not letting Snape get away with it a second time around.

"And my... history? Have you recalled that in your decision to hire me?"

"What history?" she asks with a tone not of confusion, but requesting clarification. It pains him that she needs it.

"My drinking," he answers shortly. He would mention his Death Eater history, but she put up with him as a spy so he thinks she must be able to deal with him as he is now.

"I fully expect it not to be an issue," she answers, and he feels a small swell of pride and gratitude at the honest confidence in her statement. "If it does start to be I expect you to take necessary steps to handle it. If James can handle teaching, I'm sure you can."

He bristles at the implication that he's less capable of handling himself than James and, back still to her, doesn't see the gleam in her eyes that say her words have the exact reaction she expects.

"So, will you take the post or not? I would like to know so I can look elsewhere if you decide not to."

He gives the potion one last stir, draws out the rod and taps it against the rim of the cauldron to remove the excess clinging to it, then sets it aside and turns to her. "Yes, I will," he tells her, then, with quiet sincerity, "Thank you."


	3. Summer, Part 2

**Summer, Part 2**

James doesn't look around when he hears Snape enter the kitchen. It's little after three in the morning and James has been up for half an hour after waking from an extremely weird dream involving leprechauns and flower crowns. He's slouched in a chair in the dining room, empty hot chocolate mug on the table, and he gets up as he hears Snape moving around the kitchen. He doesn't bother asking why he's awake; Snape was in a foul and unapproachable mood all day and James knows he's had bad dreams that'll only have made him worse now. So he banishes his mug to the sink with a murmured spell and slips out the dining room door to the living room so he can get to the stairs without passing Snape.

But Snape steps out the kitchen door before James reaches them, putting himself between James and the stairs. James stops and watches him. Snape stands with his arms folded over his chest and an angry gleam in his eye. As teenagers, James delighted in recognising that gleam and drawing Snape into a fight he was obviously spoiling for, but as an adult James lost that reckless desire for fighting—or rather, had it tortured out of him.

When it seems Snape has no inclination to say anything, James sighs. "Did you want something? Only I'd like to go back to bed."

"Coward," Snape spits, making James frown, confused.

"Excuse me?"

"You're a coward, Potter. Where's that lauded Gryffindor courage gone?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Severus. Unless you actually have something relevant to say, I'm going to bed."

He starts to move around the other man, but Snape grabs his arm in a grip tight enough to make James wince and leans in until James can feel Snape's lank hair brush against his face.

"You're afraid of me. The least you could do is actually admit it."

"I'm not afraid of—"

Snape jerks him around, slams him against the wall by the kitchen door, and pins him there with a forearm against his throat and his other hand grabbing James' wrist when he goes for his wand.

"Coward!" he snarls. "You're afraid and a coward for not admitting it. Were you this afraid of Lupin, I wonder? Did he know? I'm sure he could smell it just like I can. The stench comes off you in waves, James. You're afraid of what I've become."

"I'm not afraid of you—"

Snape cuts him off again, driving his arm harder into James' throat and snarling, only to gag suddenly and pull back, looking confused. The hand on James' wrist loosens and James jerks it free, grabbing the wand poking from his pocket and side stepping away, wand raised and ready.

"Keep your hands off me, Severus."

"What did you do to me?"

"Me?" James says incredulously. "You're the one that's picking a fight. I haven't done anything."

Snape starts for him. James hurls a Blasting Hex that slams into the other man and knocks him back, but Snape recovers quickly and lunges forward again, dodging a Stunning Spell to wrap a hand around James' wrist and twist hard. Bones snap and James yells, wand slipping from his fingers, then there's another crack and Snape lets go, staggering back. James hisses as he cradles his broken wrist in his other hand and opposite him Snape does the same, staring at his own broken wrist before slowly lifting his eyes to meet James'.

"That's clever," he says bitterly. "Some impressive spell work, Potter."

"I've got no idea what you're talking about, Severus. I didn't do that."

Snape scoffs. "What was it—hidden part of the contract or did you cast it after I was bit, coward?"

"I'm not a fucking coward!" James yells. "Merlin's beard, get over yourself, you stupid bastard. I'm not afraid of you because you're a werewolf, I'm afraid of you because I can read your emotions and I know which ones make you violent, just like when you were drunk. Maybe if you actually paid attention to your own emotions you'd realise that the person who's afraid of the wolf inside you is _you_. Stop projecting that fear onto me and find another way to fucking deal with it. And that," he adds, nodding towards Snape's wrist, "that's not me, but I'm bloody thankful to whoever did curse you."

He keeps his gaze on Snape as he bends and picks up his wand, carefully waving it over his right wrist and muttering a healing charm. His bone fixes with a small stab of pain and he tests it, rotating his wrist, then turns and stalks over to the fireplace, mutters the spell to light the fire and tosses in a handful of floo powder, calling out clearly, "James Potter's Office, Hogwarts!" before stepping into the flames.

*PSM*

McGonagall set James up with some private quarters after the first time Snape's drinking drove him to violence. James has used them only twice before, both times when Snape was drunk, and he hoped he'd never have to again as long as Snape remained sober. They're just down the hall from his office, charmed to allow in only James and anyone he specifically invites, including house elves, and the fireplace is completely disconnected from the floo network. McGonagall never says it in any specific words, but she provides the room as a safe space for James and he appreciates it at times when he isn't embarrassed about the fact that he needs it. He's forty-four years old and a perfectly competent wizard; he shouldn't need any kind of safe space.

But he does. He hates it, but he knows he needs it. He hates Snape for making him need it, and Lucius for putting the damned Animancupium on him in the first place. If it weren't for that, James never would have been forced between staying Bound to Lucius and spending the rest of his life in Azkaban, being Bound to some stranger the Ministry deemed fit for the position, or being Bound to Snape, who offered himself. There was no one else to take it; all James' friends were dead, so for all their differences Snape seemed like the best option.

James knows that it's Harry who made him chose, because as much as he doesn't want to spend his life in Azkaban, even if he likely deserves it for the crimes he committed under Lucius' command, he remembers the determination to keep Lucius as his Master when Sirius took his Bond and knows without Harry making him then he'd have demanded to stay with Lucius. But looking at it now, he knows Snape is the best choice anyway, as being Bound to some stranger was little better than being Bound to Lucius.

He's never regretted how things turned out, exactly, but he certainly hates it sometimes, especially after Snape starts drinking. It infuriates him that Snape sometimes seemed to forget just how much the Bond ties into James' life. It's wrapped around his very soul and Snape, being the Master of their relationship, will never know what that's like. James tries explaining it several times, but it's something that Snape either can't or won't understand. Like the fact that even when Snape is cursing him, James has to put twice as much effort into fighting back or defending himself because the Bond is constantly pulling at him, pointing out that Snape is his Master so he has the right to treat James however he pleases. Annoyingly, James isn't even sure if that's the Bond or if it's remnants of Lucius' conditioning that James simply transfers onto Snape. There's too little information on Animancupium for him to research it, and no personal records of any magical person under it, and the only other person James knows that could have answered the question is dead.

He sighs, lights the fire with a flick of his wand, and throws himself onto the sofa, sprawling across it and lifting his arm to cover his face, trying to ignore Snape's emotions, the Bond unaffected by distance or the various spells covering Hogwarts. The anger isn't fading, but James can feel it shifting, turning on Snape himself as shame creeps in to join it, and the familiar self-hatred that Snape lugs around rises a notch. Even after seven years it amazes James just how much hatred Snape manages to have for himself. He thought it was bad initially, but after Snape got sober it became even worse as he was forced to think about the things he'd done. After the werewolf attack, the self-loathing only grew. In all honesty James wasn't surprised by Snape's death wish in the hospital afterwards, merely surprised—and infuriated—by his method of attempted suicide.

He gives another sigh, lowering his arm and turning his face to stare into the flames. It would be a lot easier if he didn't know Snape's every emotion. He understands the man's thought processes far too easily and that makes it even harder to remain angry at him. He knows that Snape attacked him because Snape is angry and afraid, craving alcohol but denying himself the temptation, desperate for some kind of release but not the kind of person to harm himself like James tends to, and yet utterly refusing to be a sensible human being and talk about it, so he vents his emotions on the most readily available target. In a normal situation, being said target would be enough to keep James furious at him, but he doesn't just know Snape's reasoning behind the attack, he understands it as if he were in Snape's position, and even though James knows that it's no excuse for Snape to assault him, he still feels inclined to forgive him.

He won't, though. He's promised Ryma, his psychiatrist, that he won't forgive Snape's actions without receiving an apology from Snape, as well as an explanation that proves Snape's remorse is genuine.

He gets up then, moving quickly through to his bathroom and shedding the dressing gown he'd pulled on when he got up earlier, then stripping off his sleeping t-shirt and lifting his hand to his collarbone. There's a jagged pink scar just under it where he took a knife to his skin to cut over the words that were once carved there, but underneath is a tattoo, unmoving and simple, reading _Property of James Potter_.

He traces the letters now, mouthing the words to himself. It's the reminder that even if his soul is forever Bound to someone else, he still belongs only to himself. He isn't a possession for someone to own, a pet lapdog or piece of property, but a human being with the right to expect the same courtesies and basic human rights that everyone else did.

But that was years ago and now the tattoo is fractured by the thin white scars left by the curse Snape used on him the last time he assaulted James. He knows he could get the tattoo touched up, repairing it, but he doesn't want to. Maybe he does belong to himself, but his soul is still trapped against his will and the spider-webbing of scars over that ink reflects that. It would be a lie to suggest otherwise.

*PSM*

James is hexing, smashing, and being generally violent towards scarecrows in the Room of Requirement when McGonagall finds him the next morning. She waits in the doorway for him to finish destroying the current row of figures with a mix of Implosion Curses and fire spells then clears her throat to get his attention. He turns, giving her a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"What happened last night?" she asks, and the smile vanishes completely.

"Severus and I had a fight."

"About?"

He folds his arms over his chest then unfolds them again and runs a hand through his hair. "He's pissed off and scared about being a werewolf."

McGonagall's lips purse. "Did he attack you?"

He turns away from her and the Room provides another six figures at the opposite end as he twirls his wand between his fingers. "He was picking a fight. There were injuries on both sides."

McGonagall draws her wand, flicks it and murmurs, "_Finite Incantatem_."

Nothing happens. James looks back at her, frowning. "What was that for?"

"I was checking for glamours."

"I'm not hiding injuries, Minerva. He broke my wrist. I broke his wrist. I'm fine, see?" he says, waving his wand to show his perfectly fine wrist.

"You might be healed, James, but that doesn't mean you're fine. He has no right—"

"To assault me. I get that, Minerva, really, I do. He understands it as well, I know he does, but you know what people are like when their emotions get the better of them."

He jerks his wand up in a sharp motion and one of the scarecrows explodes, spraying straw across the room.

"Severus should know better. He should have learnt his lesson by now." She pauses as he blows up another figure, then adds gently, "My offer still stands, James."

He shoot a smile over his shoulder. "I'm grateful for it, but it won't be necessary. Severus... I knew it was going to be difficult when I agreed to Bond to him. No, I didn't expect him to be so violent," he says before she can speak, "but given our history I knew it was never going to be easy. But I chose him and for now I'm going to stick by it."

She purses her lips, watches another scarecrow go up in flames, then reaches out and squeezes his shoulder. "He's in Hogsmeade."

He spins. "What?"

"He came to the gates about ten minutes ago, asking to be let in. I sent him to the Three Broomsticks to wait for you."

"You sent him to a _pub_?"

"It's ten o'clock in the morning, James. Rosmerta doesn't serve alcohol this early. And, just in case, if you decide to turn him into a worm or something I'm sure Hagrid would take good care of him."

She's glad to get a laugh out of him at that and gives his shoulder one last squeeze before leaving.

*PSM*

Snape's slouched in a chair at the table farthest from the bar when James gets to the Three Broomsticks, which is mostly empty at this time of day. James makes his way over, though Snape doesn't seem to notice him until he slips into the chair opposite him. Madam Rosmerta, the bartender, starts over, but James catches her eye and shakes his head and she returns to the bar. James fixes his gaze on Snape, who's staring at his coffee, mouth turned into a scowl. James waits.

It takes Snape a minute and scalding his mouth on his coffee before he finally says, "I'm sorry."

"For?"

"For attacking you last night. It was uncalled for."

"Why did you?"

"Because I was an idiot."

"Not good enough. You're always an idiot."

Snape scowls.

"It's true and you know it, Severus. In less than a month you've abused the Bond and assaulted me. You know if I really wanted I could have you arrested for breaking the deal."

"In case you've forgotten I was viciously attacked three weeks ago," Snape hisses, but there's an undercurrent of fear in his voice. "I've been made a monster. I think I'm entitled to some emotional discord."

"You're not entitled to take it out on _me_," James replies coolly, leaning back in his seat and folding his arms over his chest. "You've got a therapist and the capability to fucking talk about yourself, Severus. If you really need to vent yourself with frustrations then ask me to participate in a bloody duel, don't just fucking assault me or you'll become exactly the kind of monster I know you don't want to be."

Snape goes white then blotchy red patches appear in his cheeks. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Of course not. It's not like I was best friends with a werewolf for ten years. It's not like I've got some stupid magical bond tying my soul to someone who's now a werewolf, subsequently letting me know every emotion said werewolf is—"

"Stop saying that!"

James blinks, thrown off track. "What?"

"That word. Stop saying it. I don't need the whole damned village knowing about it."

James sighs. "Maybe you ought to say it more often, Severus. You can't undo this. In a week you're going to transform and I know you're terrified, but you can't stop it. Learn to deal with it. Go talk to Oliver and when you've dealt with it, you can come and apologise."

"I already apologised," Snape says as James gets to his feet.

"I don't accept it, not until you realise what drove you to attacking me so I know it won't happen again. I'll be at the castle until then."

Snape gets to his own feet. "You're not coming home?"

"No. You need some space and until I know you've dealt with what's going to happen to you, I've got no desire to be around you."

That isn't entirely true, not with the Bond urging him to stick with Snape, but after so long that urge isn't so strong he can't ignore it for a week if need be. He doubts it'll be that long before Snape gets himself sorted out, but even if it is James will join him on the full moon anyway. Whatever issues between them, he won't leave Snape alone for his first transformation.

*PSM*

Snape stands in the doorway of James' office at Hogwarts three days before the full moon, hair lanker and face paler than usual, eyes shadowed and shoulders hunched. James wants to get up and hug him, but he resists the urge. Snape, for all that the Bond is screaming for comfort, won't appreciate the gesture, and James knows better than to upset a werewolf this close to the full moon.

"You were right," Snape mutters. "I'm... afraid. I'm fucking terrified, and I took it out on you when I shouldn't have. I'm an idiot, I'm out of control and I don't know why you even put up with me. Why do you put up with me?"

James shrugs. "Don't have much choice."

"I know Minerva's offered to take the Bond. Somehow I doubt even if she became a... a monster that she'd start assaulting you."

"I don't want the hassle of a new Bond, and she's also about forty years older than me. I die when she dies; I probably wouldn't see a hundred. Don't tell her I said that."

Snape snorts. He leans against the door frame, eying the chair opposite James' desk longingly but unwilling to move further into the room without James' invitation. He's the one at fault; he has to avoid pushing his presence on the other man, especially after what happened.

James notices. "You can take a seat. And apology accepted. I just want you to do one thing."

Snape eyes him warily as he sits down. "What?"

"Say 'I am a werewolf'."

Snape raises an eyebrow. James shakes his head. "Don't look at me like that, Severus. You've got three days before your first transformation. You've called yourself a monster and diseased, and you only refer to the attack as 'The Incident', but you refuse to actually use the word werewolf and you flinch whenever someone else does as if they'd said Voldemort."

"I do not," Snape lies.

"You can't undo this, Severus. Just admit it."

"I am well aware that I can't undo this, James, and I have a psychiatrist. I'd thank you not to try and imitate him."

James shrugs. Snape slouches in his chair.

"I tested the... curse or whatever it is that's been put on me."

"Tested it how?"

"I went to Knockturn Alley and picked a fight with a drunk. It seems to only work when I hurt you."

"I didn't do it," James tells him. "I didn't even know such a curse was possible."

"I think it was Harry."

"Harry? When?"

"When I was in Azkaban after... while I detoxed I was hallucinating. Or thought I was. I saw him and he asked me if I was sorry for what I'd done. I thought it was just my guilty conscience talking, but now I'm wondering if maybe it was really him."

"And you think he cursed you to feel whatever pain you inflict on me?"

Snape nods. "Vernon Dursley was drunk the day he put Harry in the hospital. I'm probably lucky to still be alive."

"You're his dad, he wouldn't kill you."

Snape snorts disbelievingly. "I was a shit father to him and we all know it. Being his father wouldn't stop Harry killing me if he thought I really deserved it."

"He didn't kill you when Voldemort ordered him to."

"I doubt I'd get that lucky again."

*PSM*

"You'll want to strip."

Snape jerks his head up, looking at James without stopping in his pacing, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "What?"

"Your clothes won't transform with you like an Animagus. You'll want to take them off or they'll get shredded."

Snape gives a bark of humourless laughter that doesn't ease the obvious fear on his face. He shakes his head and says nothing, still pacing the living room. The doors, internal and external, and windows have been warded with every Ministry-approved werewolf entrapment spell, as well as a couple of extra dark spells that Snape puts up. He's taken the Wolfsbane Potion, but still doesn't want to leave anything to chance, especially on the first time.

He stops abruptly and James stiffens. Snape ignores him, staring at his hands as they begin to tremble. He shakes his head, fear swamping him now, and opens his mouth to say that he can't do it, he won't do it, it can't be happening... but all that comes out is an animalistic keening. Pain almost as bad as the Cruciatus lances through his entire body. His bones snap horribly as they break and grow and reform, his muscles burn as they stretch, his skin itches as fur springs out of it. He lets out a pained whine, the only noise he can make, as his jaws crack and lengthen, teeth growing and changing. His vision wavers and distorts, the room around him twisting, darkening, growing, and all the time it _hurts_.

And then it stops.

He pants, lying on the floor amidst a pile of shredded robes, and waits for the lingering aches to fade then whines softly. He hears a snort and the floor vibrates with the gentle stomping of hooves, and he looks up at the stag standing a small distance away. He bares his teeth in a snarl, hackles raising, and gets to his feet. Prongs lowers himself to the floor and rolls onto his side, antlers pointed away from the wolf, baring his throat. For a moment, neither animal moves, and slowly the wolf's fur settles down and his lips fall back to hide his teeth. He pads forward, sniffing, nose filling with scents that are at once new and familiar. He approaches Prongs, noses at his throat, then opens his mouth and puts his teeth against the bared throat. Prongs snorts but doesn't move.

Wolf and Bond are satisfied. Snape draws his teeth back and Prongs lifts his head, nudging his nose against Snape's snout. Snape snaps at him, but there's no viciousness in the action, and Prongs gets up into a resting position. Snape lies flat, resting his head on his paws, and thumps his tail against the floor then looks startled at doing so. Prongs snickers, clearly laughing at him, and Snape bares his teeth at him before looking around at his tail, swishing it from side to side. He watches it for several moments then suddenly lunges at it, teeth snapping as he tries to grab it, turning in a circle in an effort to try and catch himself.

Then he realises what he's doing and freezes. Prongs gives another snicker and Snape growls and lunges at him, claws latching into his side but withdrawing almost immediately. Snape backs off, shaking his head and lowering himself to the floor. Prongs gets to his feet and trots over, ignoring the bared teeth, and lowers his head, nudging Snape with his antlers. Snape growls and doesn't move. Prongs lifts one leg and presses his hoof to Snape's head, letting it rest there harmlessly. Snape's eyes cross for a moment as he tries to look at it, then he shakes his head and pulls away. Prongs snickers, nudges him with his antlers again, then bounds away. Snape blinks at him. Prongs paws at the ground and tosses his antlers, and the wolf picks up on what Snape doesn't and leaps forward. Prongs steps aside and Snape flies past him, but lands and turns smoothly, already moving into a second jump and this time hitting Prongs, front legs latching around the stag's neck and teeth worrying playfully into the flesh, tugging but not hurting.

*PSM*

Snape wakes with a groan, feeling like he's spent half the night being tortured under the Cruciatus. He wants nothing more than to go back to sleep, but the ache in his bones, joints, and muscles is too unpleasant to ignore.

He opens his eyes and blinks a couple of times until his bedroom ceiling swims into focus. He shifts slightly, hisses at the renewed throbbing it causes, and realises he's tucked in bed. There's morning sunlight dimmed behind the curtains and James is perched on the edge of the bed, watching him.

"Pain reliever?" James offers and Snape nods, pushing himself up into a half sitting position as James takes a sea-blue potion from beside the bed and hands it over. Snape downs it and gives a relieved sigh as it gets to work instantly, easing the aches and pain as he lies back down.

"You should rest. Get some sleep before you go to Azkaban this afternoon."

"I'm not going anywhere today," Snape mutters, closing his eyes.

"It's Harry's birthday."

Snape swears. He always visits on Harry's birthday and on Christmas. Even when he drank he didn't miss those and he isn't going to let being a werewolf stop him either.

"You'll feel better after some sleep," James says. "Not great, but better. I'll wake you at about two, if you're not up."

Snape murmurs an agreement, already slipping back into sleep.

*PSM*

Annabeth Parker, Azkaban's head guard, eyes Snape as Dayton Nix, the guard on the front desk, runs a Secrecy Sensor over the man, her arms folded over her chest and mouth turned into a frown. When Dayton finishes, Snape slumps against the counter, looking ready to collapse as he scribbles his name in the visitors' log with a shaky hand.

"You drinking again?" Annabeth asks bluntly when Snape shuffles over to her, making no move to open the door into the main prison.

"I would feel less like shit if I were."

When she makes no motion to move, he growls at her.

"I'm sick, Parker. Not hungover. Let me see him."

She gives him another once over, but up close he does look more sick than hungover. She's seen him like that several times before he attacked James Potter and spent thirty days imprisoned himself. That was the first time she saw Harry Evans do more than sit on his bed; he broke out of his own cell and somehow managed to make his way through the prison to where Snape was locked up. He spent the night with his father, and no one dared to try and stop him, then returned to his own cell and resumed his near catatonic state.

She turns, tapping her wand to the door and leading him through the prison. When they reach the Dead Block, where Azkaban's most feared and dangerous prisoners are housed, she's not surprised to find Harry lying on his bed, curled on his side with Kiwi pulled against him. If he notices Snape, he makes no sign of it. Annabeth waits a short distance away as Snape slides down to sit on the floor, putting himself at head height with Harry, and leans against the bars.

*PSM*

"Hello, Harry," Snape greets softly. "Happy birthday."

There's no response. Snape rests his head against the bars, guiltily thinking that he shouldn't have bothered dragging himself out of bed to visit someone who doesn't even acknowledge him.

"There's something I need to tell you," he says, pitching his voice lower, unwilling to let anyone else hear his confession. He rubs his hand over his face, steeling himself to say it. Having suffered through his first transformation doesn't make it any easier to admit what he is. "I was attacked last month. By a... a werewolf. I was infected."

For the first time since Harry's imprisonment, Snape's words elicit a reaction. It's tiny, just a shift and a slight noise that could be an inquiry or could be nothing at all, but it's more than Snape's got from him in years.

"I also... I attacked James a week ago. I let my emotions get the better of me and tried to take it out on him, but it turns out I've been cursed to feel everything I do to him. That was you, wasn't it?"

"You promised you wouldn't."

Snape starts, staring at Harry. He hasn't moved, but Snape definitely heard him speak.

"I know. I messed up and I'm lucky James has forgiven me. It was a clever spell, though. I don't think anyone else could have done something like that."

But Harry says nothing more.

*PSM*

Narcissa clears her throat as she steps up to James and takes his left hand in her right, while his right settles on her waist and her left settles on his shoulder. Across the hall, Eric taps his wand to the gramophone and the dozen couples in the room start moving. Narcissa relaxes as she dances, letting the music fill her, focusing on the steps and motions rather than the lingering discomfort of just who her partner is.

Two things kept her from walking out of the first class after she found out that she was being partnered with James Potter: a childhood of having manners beat into her and years of practising said manners, and the knowledge that this is the only advanced ballroom dance class available in Britain, at least to wizards. She wants—needs—to dance, something she hasn't done in years. When she finally decided that she had to do something more with herself than stay home and read, dance was the first thing that came to mind and she knows that nothing else will suffice.

When James offered to swap partners with the instructors, she said no partially because she was intrigued by the brief moment of utter submissiveness he displayed with the question, and partially because time and distance has let her accept that James' relationship with Lucius was no more his fault that it was Narcissa's. Then she discovers that he isn't a bad dancer and his identity comes second to that when they're moving.

*PSM*

"You seem rather distracted this evening, Mr Potter."

James starts, knocking them out of step, and apologises, getting back into rhythm then focusing his attention on Narcissa with a wan smile. "Rough night."

"Do you have them often?"

On the surface the question seems innocent enough, but James learned to listen carefully to the slightest inflections in a person's voice, to the slightest hint of tone that betrays their true feelings. It's a skill he needs with Lucius, especially after Lucius learns to shield his emotions from the Bond and James has to read other signs that indicate whether Lucius would curse him or spend two hours reading to him and petting his hair.

And Narcissa's voice, while nearly perfect in its calm, distant curiosity, still has a tiny hint of disapproval.

"No," he answers slowly, not bothering to hide his own wariness. Some people it's better to hide such emotions from—Snape, for one, although he thinks that might change with Snape's lycanthropy—because they pounce on any sign of weakness and exploit them. But others can be manipulated with certain emotions. A hint of fear in his words or movements can make someone speak more truthfully than they otherwise would, because they dislike causing fear and think openness will prevent it, while a gesture of submissiveness to the right person encourages them to underestimate him.

He isn't entirely sure what the best way to act with Narcissa is, as he's not entirely sure of the balance of power and friction and emotions between them, but elects for now to show wariness but nothing stronger. He knows her well enough through Lucius to know she's strong, so any overt weakness will be either scoffed at or manipulated, but he's aware that everything he knows of her is second-hand and seven years old, and wariness is sensible and expected.

"It affects your dancing," she responds, and her tone this time is pure honesty. "You appear to be one of the better men in the hall; it would be disappointing to have to take up with someone else because other night time activities left you at less than your best."

"Oh," he says, caught off guard by the compliment and the apparently honest desire to stay as his partner. "No, it's not a common problem," he assures her.

She doesn't nod—that wouldn't be in keeping with the motions of the dance—but she graces him with a small, polite smile and says nothing more.

* * *

**Elsewhere**

"Harry, dear?"

"Mmm?"

"Why do you always cook when I visit?"

"I don't know. Why do you always visit when I'm cooking? It _is_ my birthday," he reminds her, making her smile.

"I know. The big question, then, is why are you making yourself a birthday cake when Draco should make you one?"

"Draco would blow up the kitchen," he answers dryly, mixing cake batter. "Anyway, it's not a cake cake. It's just some little ones. Draco will bring me one; he always does. He gets Pippin to make it at Malfoy Manor."

"Rich folk," Lily mutters, then says louder, "It doesn't matter much anyway. People in your head don't need to eat."

He sighs with exasperation, glancing over with faint amusement. "Really, Mum? Even on my birthday?"

"Every day I visit until you believe it."

"Right. Until I believe that you, Draco, Sirius, and Remus are dead and you were all killed in a war with someone named Voldemort, who spent most of my life living inside my head. What else? Oh yeah, I never grew up with you and James and I didn't spend weekends with Dad and I sold my soul to a demon when I was seven. Oh, and of course, you have a sister whose husband I killed to split said soul in an effort to avoid paying up on the demon deal. You know, Mum, you should write books. You can come up with some great stories. They're a bit depressing though; you might want to work on your happy endings."

"I'm trying."

"Really? So what's the happy ending to the thoroughly depressing story you decided to centre on me? And for that matter," he adds, turning to face her properly and leaning a hip against the counter, holding the bowl against him as he continues mixing, "I should be concerned that my mother is making up such horrible life stories about me."

"_I'm_ concerned about the fact that Draco's death traumatised you so much you created an entirely new universe where you don't have to deal with it."

He shakes his head, setting down the bowl and scooping out a bit of batter on his finger, licking it off as he reaches for his acacia wand with his other hand and flicks it at a carton of cupcake cases, which unload themselves onto a baking tray in neat rows. Another flick of his wand makes blobs of cake batter fly out of the bowl and into each case.

"You haven't answered me," he says. "What's the happy ending you want for this story?"

"Ideally, you accept that this world isn't real, you deal with Draco's death, and you start to heal from the trauma of spending several months being tortured and come to terms with having unknowingly shared your body with Voldemort for much of your life."

"Right, but in this story I'm serving a life sentence in Azkaban, you told me before. So how am I supposed to heal and move on while I'm there? It's _Azkaban_; I doubt it's any more pleasant in this story than it is here. It's probably worse."

"It's almost exactly the same," she tells him, "but you're there because you sent yourself there. You killed Voldemort; the Wizengamot would likely be willing to pardon you of your other crimes."

The batter finishes dishing itself out and Harry scoops his finger through the remains on the bowl then opens the oven and picks up the tray of cakes, sliding it inside and kicking it shut, then taking the mixing bowl over to the breakfast bar and sitting beside Lily.

"Firstly, Dad killed the Voldemort bloke in this story of yours. You said Voldemort was in me and Dad used the Killing Curse, so he killed Voldemort. And by the way, I know you and Dad don't always get on, but writing in the story that he kills me? That's just mean. You want some?" he adds, pushing the mixing bowl towards her, but she shakes her head and he shrugs. "More for me. Secondly, the Harry in this story killed innocent people. He deserves to be in Azkaban."

"Do you?"

"Yes. Even if you claim _he_," he says pointedly, "paid for his crimes with the torture he suffered or that he didn't deserve to be punished because he only did it to protect his godfather, he still killed his uncle in cold blood, and that Assistant person. He has to pay for that and the torture doesn't count."

"And you think that as long as you're in Azkaban, you can't heal and move on so you might as well spend your incarceration in an imaginary world."

"Exactly," he agrees. "If—_if_—this was all just pretend, why would you try and make me realise the truth? I'm happy here, Mum. I had a good life. Why do you want me to believe I didn't?"

She reaches out and combs her fingers through his hair, smiling sadly. "Because you're my son and I want you healthy and sane, and I believe you could move on with your life. Even if that maybe involved breaking out of Azkaban and fleeing the country to begin your life anew somewhere else."

"Oh, what, so now you support breaking the law?" he asks with a raised eyebrow.

"As long as you're not hurting anyone, I can get behind law breaking just this once. Perhaps you do deserve a prison sentence for the murders you commit, but that doesn't mean I have to like it."

He laughs, shaking his head and leaning over to kiss her cheek. "Well I haven't killed anyone so you don't have to worry about me being in prison or having to break out."

Their conversation is cut short by the sound of the doorbell. Harry hops up to answer it, magicking his hands clean as he goes, and she follows. She's not surprised to see Snape at the door when Harry opens it, but she is surprised to see him slumped against the door frame, barely able to stand.

Christmas and Harry's birthday are the only times Lily spends any time around the imaginary versions of Snape. He comes over on each to see Harry and she doesn't mind him as much as she minds the imaginary version of James, because she knows that his behaviour is actually influenced by Snape in reality.

Which makes her concerned for why he looks so terrible now. She watches him stagger across the room and collapse into the nearest chair. Harry kneels in front of him, expression worried.

"Dad, what's wrong? Are you ill?"

"Something like that," he says wearily. "I've been bit by a werewolf."

"_What?_" Harry cries and Lily can't keep herself from giving a surprised gasp.

"During last month's full moon," Snape elaborates. "I was infected. The first full moon was last night."

Lily stares at him, amazed that he's even here. She saw Lupin the first day after a full moon once before she died and he was barely able to function; from what she knew, the first change is far more taxing. For Snape to have dragged himself all the way to Azkaban afterwards...

"There's something else I need to confess," Snape says. "I attacked James, a week ago. My temper got the better of me."

"Oh, Severus," Lily sighs, earning a regretful glance from him.

"You promised you wouldn't," Harry says, disappointment thick in his voice. Snape closes his eyes, expression guilty.

"I know. I apologised and we talked, but I know I shouldn't have." He opens his eyes then and while the guilt is still clear on his face, there's a calculating look in his eye too. "When I hurt him, it hurt me, too. You did that, didn't you?"

Harry nods. "You nearly killed him and I didn't know if you would stop drinking, so I had to do something to protect him."

"It's some impressive spellwork."

Harry just shrugs.


	4. Summer, Part 3

**Summer, Part 3**

Snape struggles to keep his expression clear as he hands his resignation to Culpeper, then realises that he really doesn't need to and lets his lip curl into a sneer at the man's obvious relief. He doesn't consider the hypocrisy of his distaste at the man's clear dislike of werewolves, or the fact that if their positions were reversed Snape would have found an excuse to fire him on the very first day after he came back to work.

"I'll be sorry to see you go, Severus."

Snape raises an eyebrow just enough to make it clear he knows that for the lie it is and is glad to see Culpeper flush and look away, then clear his throat.

"You should open the store. It's almost nine o'clock."

"Of course. We can discuss the details of my payment for brewing the Wolfsbane Potion during my lunch break."

Culpeper looks up and blinks at him. "What?"

"I assume you will still want it brewed for the store." He pauses, then adds, "You _are_ aware that there are very few people capable of making it. It would be a shame for you to lose customers to Ripley's because you no longer provided it."

Culpeper leaps to his feet. "Just a minute now, no good person would go to Ripley's! And what are you talking about the details of payment? You get paid for it."

"As part of my salary. The time and effort spent brewing is paid for as part of my employment contract. As that will no longer be relevant in two weeks, we will have to establish new payment, including whether you will have me purchase the ingredients myself, which will, of course, require a larger payment than if you provided them for me."

He smiles as Culpeper gapes, clearly not having considered all the consequences of losing a Potions Master as his employee. Snape doubts he'll find anyone else as skilled as him to fill the position, which would typically go to some average wizard who scraped an E in their Potions and Herbology OWLs.

"As I said, we can discuss it during my lunch break," he says, then turns and sweeps out the office to the backroom and through to the main shop to open up.

*PSM*

Snape gets home from the apothecary that evening to find James just dishing up two plates of shepherds pie and instantly goes on the defensive. Shepherds pie is his favourite meal.

"What is it?"

James doesn't look at him. "What's what?"

"Out with it, James. You're not a housewife. Why are you trying to put me in a good mood?"

James banishes the cooking pots to the sink and picks up both plates, carrying them through to the dining room and setting them down. "Tell you after we've eaten."

He sits. Snape doesn't. "I'd prefer you tell me now or the concern of what you've got to say will ruin the meal."

James looks up with a grimace. "You know that Potions conference you're attending at the end of the month?"

"Yes," Snape says slowly.

"It's the day of the full moon."

Snape stares at him for several long moments, then vanishes with a crack. James sighs, draws his wand, and casts a Cover Charm on Snape's dinner. "Told him he should have eaten first," he mutters to himself and digs into his own meal.

Snape returns just as James finishes eating. He goes first to the calendar pinned to the dining room wall, which marks the phases of the moon as well as the date, then nods, turns, and sits at the table, dispelling the charm on his plate and murmuring a Reheating Spell over it before starting to eat.

"Where have you been?"

"Venting my frustrations."

James decides to not pry further. He can't smell alcohol and Snape's mood seems steady, so he's reasonably sure that he hasn't been drinking.

"I will still be attending the conference."

"Sure?"

Snape nods. "I take the Wolfsbane and moonrise isn't until after eight in the evening. I can attend all the lectures and only miss the evening social events. _That_ is no great loss."

James gives a small smile at his tone. Snape probably wouldn't have attended the evening events anyway.

* * *

**Elsewhere**

"Doesn't it concern you that Draco, Sirius, Remus, and I don't age?"

Harry looks over with an exasperated look. He's making chocolate cornflake cakes today, simple but tasty, and for some reason producing enough to feed an army. There are already three trays worth sat around the kitchen.

"Don't be ridiculous, Mum. Of course you age."

Lily raises her eyebrows. "Harry, I look twenty-one and I have done for decades."

"You're youthful looking," he says brazenly, turning his attention back to the melting chocolate.

"I'm dead."

He huffs. "Well, if you're going to be like that then I'll say I was trying not to point out that you don't look twenty-one. No offence, Mum, and you're still beautiful, but you're in your mid-forties and you look it. Just like Sirius and Remus, and Draco looks twenty-four."

Lily sighs. Sirius and Remus are understandable. At the age they died, it isn't hard to envision them in their mid forties instead of late thirties. Draco is almost understandable as well; he's a handsome young man and if his lifestyle habits in the real world were anything like what they are in Elsewhere, then he would probably have kept his beauty for years to come and spent his life being consistently mis-aged. Lily herself, on the other hand, is a complete mystery. She most definitely does look twenty-one, but it seems Harry's sheer determination makes him completely blind to that fact. Harry himself is the only one to age, looking like a healthy if still somewhat skinny twenty-four year old—nothing like the scarred, blind figure in Azkaban whose age is somewhat indeterminate due to the mutilations on his skin.

Harry hears her sigh and pauses in dumping chocolate covered cornflakes into cup cases to come over. "I'm sorry, that was a mean thing to say. You do look twenty-one."

"Harry Evans, I am not so insecure about my looks that I need you to lie to me," she says dryly. "I'd thank you not to."

"Aha! So you admit it."

"I admit that you _think_ I look in my forties and that your delusional state of mind is worse than I thought."

He just laughs at her and returns to his cake making, mismatched eyes gleaming with mirth. When she first came to Elsewhere, she assumed the different coloured eyes were a part of reality breaking into his delusion, but it hadn't taken long for her to reason that it's purely a matter of preference. It's evident in the pleased look he gets whenever Draco compliments them.

"I'm glad you find your insanity so amusing," she remarks.

"I find your insistence on believing this story amusing. Have you started writing it down yet? You could earn loads of money from selling it as a book."

"Maybe one day," she murmurs.

* * *

Hermione sweeps her gaze across the chairs set up in the Leziate conference room of the Everest Hotel, several rows neatly arranged before the temporary stage, an aisle down the centre splitting them into two groups. Witches and wizards linger about, talking in small groups or already seated, calmly waiting for the lecturer to appear and begin.

Or not so calmly, she thinks as her gaze settles on a lone man sat in the aisle chair of the back row on the left, familiar even from behind. His presence isn't really a surprise, especially at this particular lecture, which comes from an American wizard who's made advancements on the Wolfsbane Potion. She does think it's rather cruel that this lecture is the last of the day and the full moon that night, which, she thinks, is probably why Severus Snape sits with one hand pressed to his face and the other drumming fingers against his knee. She bites at her lip, hesitating, but she's here alone and there might be an advantage to sitting beside a Potions Master of Snape's calibre. If nothing else, it's a familiar face, and even if he's unpleasant she might at least save some other poor, unprepared person from having to deal with his vitriol.

Decision made, she nods to herself and makes her way over.

"Excuse me."

He twists in his seat without looking up, making room for her to pass, but then seems to recognise her voice and lifts his head from his hand as she sits in the chair beside him.

"Granger. What are you doing here?"

A slight growl in his voice keeps her from making a smart comment about the conference not being exclusive to grouchy Potions Masters and sets her bag under the chair as she answers, "I work in the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures at the Ministry. Bob Snicket, the Department Head, needed someone to come to the conference, mostly for this lecture, and he offered it to me."

It's something she's unfailingly grateful for. She might have come anyway, because even at nearly twenty-five years old she enjoys learning new things whenever she can, but it isn't necessary to her particular work so she'd have had to pay for the attendance herself and taken a day off work to attend. Going for the Department means her ticket is paid for _and_ she gets a full day's pay still.

"Why are you sitting _there_?"

He asks the question with a pointed glance at the multitude of empty chairs sat around the room. She smiles. "Someone has to. Really, Pro- Mr Snape, don't you think you'd prefer me to someone else?"

He doesn't answer her question. "Professor is the accurate title, Miss Granger. I am still a Potions Master, and that besides I will be back at Hogwarts in two days."

Her mouth drops in surprise. "Really? You said you don't like teaching."

"I said I didn't like teaching Potions," he corrects, and his eyes flick to one side, nose wrinkling, as a stout witch wearing a large amount of perfume passes down the aisle and sits two rows in front of them. Snape reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small jar, unscrewing it to show a pale green, semi-translucent paste inside that gives of a whiff of mint, which he dips his finger in before smearing it under his nose. It vanishes on contact with his skin, but the lines along his forehead ease slightly. "I've taken up the Defence Against the Dark Arts post for a year."

"Just a year? I thought the curse on that position died with Voldemort."

Snape doesn't react to the name, but a wizard passing behind them gives a surprised yip and glares at her. She ignores him.

"It did. The regular teacher has taken a year's maternity leave. Minerva McGonagall asked me to fill in."

"Oh. That's nice."

Snape snorts and she can't help a sly smile. "I suppose you hate babies."

"Hate is a very strong word, Miss Granger. I merely prefer not to be anywhere near them. They are noisy, dirty creatures."

She scoffs. "Honestly, they're only small humans. It's not like they're an entirely different species. Have you ever even spent much time with a baby?"

His expression turns instantly cold and hard. "No, I haven't," he answers shortly, folding his arms over his chest and twisting aside to let another person pass them. Hermione shifts herself and the witch sits down on her other side. Hermione doesn't try speaking with Snape again; it's clear he's not going to respond kindly to any further questioning. She thinks her question may have reminded him that he never knew Harry as a baby, and maybe he regrets that particular mistake a lot, despite his comment about disliking babies.

*PSM*

Snape is one of the first to his feet when the lecture's over and the questions are finished. He barely heard any of them, unable to focus, his mind too concerned with the moon he can feel rising. He has half an hour until he changes, but he already wants to get home and locked up where he's safe.

But when he tries to open the doors, they refuse to budge. The stout witch wearing too much perfume comes up behind him and he experiences a moment of dizziness at the overwhelming smell.

"Do hurry up," she commands. "I need to use the loo."

He steps aside and she tries the door, frowning as it doesn't open for her either. Snape watches her push and pull, drawing the attention of several others in the room.

"Is the door stuck?" a wizard asks, reaching around the witch to tug it himself.

"Seems to be," the witch answers, but Snape only half hears her. Almost against his will his eyes are drawn to those of the other wizard, his nostrils flaring as some scent he can't put a name to fills his nose, overpowering even that of the witch's perfume. His gaze meets amber eyes and the wolf in him howls as the wizard bares his teeth in a snarl and he knows, instantly, that this man is a werewolf too.

But it's his wizard's gut senses that tell him this one, unlike him, isn't dosed with Wolfsbane, and he knows instantly that the door isn't stuck—it's locked, and not by accident.

He whirls, eyes searching out the conference organiser that's in the room. If anyone knows a second way out, she will, although Snape has a feeling that if there is one, it'll be locked as well. Before he can move though, a hand grabs his arm, nails digging through the cloth of his robe, and hot breath brushes against his ear. "Get ready for the meal of your life. If you don't mind, I'm going to eat that pretty young thing you were sat next to first."

Snape glances at the man. "You don't know me at all," he says, and punches him. It's not the best punch he's ever thrown, the angle all wrong, but it's enough to make the man stagger and give Snape a chance to jerk away and draw his wand. The people nearest see and shift away, recognising a fight brewing and not wanting to get involved, but he notices the conference organiser making her way over, clearly wanting to prevent a fight.

"_Werewolf_!" Snape roars, fixing his wand on the man. Everyone nearby shrieks and gets as far away from the two of them as they can, but the man is grinning as he faces down Snape without drawing his own wand.

"They're trapped in here with us, young blood. You can warn them all you like, we're still going to rip them to pieces before anyone opens that door or takes down the anti-Apparition spells."

"_I've_ taken the Wolfsbane. I won't kill anyone, and I'm not going to allow you to either."

The man chuckles.

"Young blood," he repeats. "I can smell it. You're not at one with your wolf, and that means you've got no chance of over-powering me. I've been like this for twenty years. All you'll do is get yourself killed before I turn on them. And _that_ will do you no good," he adds with a nod to Snape's wand. "Even if you stunned me, it'd wear off with the change. You can't bind me, because it'll loosen with the change too, and no wizard is skilled enough to bind a wolf when he's turned," he adds, grinning at the crowd, several of whom have their wands in hand. Hermione's among them, Snape notices, but although she looks scared she also has a familiar expression on her face, one he's seen plenty of times in the classroom after presenting a particularly complex problem.

"_Stupefy!_"

The man gives a brief, condescending smirk as red light flies from Snape's wand and he doesn't even try to dodge it, letting it hit him and send him slumping to the floor unconscious.

"We're still trapped!" shrieks the stout witch.

"Someone stupefy him too!" another person shouts.

"No!"

Snape's surprised by Hermione's defence, watching her shove through the crowd to stand before him, her face set as she faces everyone else. "He took the Wolfsbane, he's not a threat. And you heard that man: when they change, the spells will wear off."

"We don't know he's taken Wolfsbane. He could be in on this!"

"He's not!" Hermione insists. "I know him and I trust that he's taken the potion. I don't know how long we have until moonrise—"

"Twenty minutes," Snape provides. "Thereabouts, anyway."

"Okay. We need to transfigure the chairs into a cage and inspect the charms on the door to see if they're breakable."

"Two cages," Snape corrects. "I don't want locking in with him."

Hermione turns to look at him. "But you've taken—"

"He still needs caging," the stout witch interrupts. "He's an animal; he needs locking down."

Snape can't help the vicious snarl he makes at the woman's words, even knowing it makes him seem exactly like the animal she says he is. But although he calls himself that, he never realised how demeaning it would be to hear someone else say it in that tone.

Fear flashes across the woman's face before her expression turns smug. "See. An animal. Lock him up."

Snape turns away from her before he does something regrettable, focusing on Hermione. "Two cages, with Stabilising Spells and whatever protection charms you know."

She nods. "You can make your own, I guess."

"It would be better if you did. I'm not sure how my spells will hold when I turn."

It's the truth, if not the whole truth; he refuses to admit to a roomful of people that he doesn't trust his transfiguration skills to create a cage strong enough to hold a werewolf. It was always his worst subject in school.

Hermione begins transfiguring chairs and another wizard starts doing the same for the other werewolf. The conference organiser goes to the doors, inspecting the spells keeping them shut. Snape stands and closes his eyes against the stares, wishing he could so easily block out the whispers, and clenches his fists against the embarrassment and shame he feels at having to cage himself in front of these people.

"Professor?"

He opens his eyes and sees Hermione standing by a metal cage, created from six chairs, one for each side, and the front of the cage unattached, waiting for him. He's grateful at least that she's made it large, seven feet on all sides, while the other wizard has created something closer to the size of a dog cage, which he and two other wizards are now shoving the unconscious werewolf into. At least Snape can keep the dignity of walking into his cage.

"I'm sorry, professor," Hermione almost whispers after he's stepped inside and she levitates the sixth side into place and spells it to join with the rest of the cage, trapping him in. In answer he takes his wand from his pocket and holds it out to her.

"I'd rather it didn't get damaged," he explains when she looks confused. She nods and takes it, slipping it into her pocket and stepping back. She starts casting Protection and Stabilising Spells on the cage but he loses attention before she finishes, feeling the change start to come over him. It's not quite as terrible as the last time. Still horrible, of course, painful and unpleasant, but not as bad. He's read that the first time is always the worst, but he's not sure if that's because of the actual magic or just because the body now knows the change and so it merely doesn't feel it as much.

Then its over and he's lying on the floor, panting harshly and surrounded by the tattered remains of his robes. A growl has him getting to his feet though, hackles rising as he turns to look through the bars and across the space between his cage and the other. The second wolf is larger than himself and older too. He can smell, now, what the other wizard referred to; instinct tells him that this wolf has been animal longer than he has.

There are shrieks from the others when the second wolf growls and snarls, throwing himself against the sides of his cage, snout thrusting between the bars to try and snap at the people beyond it. Snape snarls back, which only serves to infuriate the other wolf more. It wants to get out, to fight the young imposter and feed on the collected prey, Snape knows instinctively. Somewhere inside of him is something that wants to do the same, to prove itself strong and powerful to this older wolf and to rip flesh from bones. But he won't. Snape has no intention of ever letting himself become that. He may not have a choice about what happens to his body when the full moon rises, but he can at least control his mind and with that control what his changed body does.

"These are Magic Locked," he hears a voice say, and turns his head towards the doors, where the conference organiser is talking to Hermione. "Probably by him," the woman says with a jerk of her head towards the second wolf, "and the Anti-Apparition spells are tied into it as well. There's a second door behind the stage, but it's probably been locked too

"We should check anyway," Hermione says and the organiser nods an agreement, moving to do that, ordering everyone to the back of the room as she goes, putting them as far from the two cages as possible, though most people have already distanced themselves, nervously eying the second wolf. Snape expects Hermione to as well, but she grabs a chair and drags it over to sit beside his cage, settling herself in it then pointing her wand at the second wolf and casting a Silencing Charm, which at least quietens his snarls if not the noise of his body hitting the bars.

"That's better," she says, and Snape's not sure if it's to herself or to him. He watches her send off a Patronus message, hopefully to alert someone outside the room of what's going on, then she pockets her wand and looks at Snape. "You're quite a handsome wolf."

He bares his teeth in a low snarl. She looks at him curiously.

"Do you not appreciate compliments?"

He snorts. There is nothing to compliment him about. Certainly no one has ever used the word handsome in regard to him and there is nothing about werewolves that the word can apply to either. Electing to ignore her, he lies down, resting his head on his paws and keeping his gaze on the other werewolf. It's going to be a long night.

*PSM*

Prongs stands in front of the double doors keeping him separated from Snape, ignoring the odd glances the Aurors send him. He knows something's wrong twenty minutes before moonrise and comes straight to the hotel. He hears from hotel personnel and conference organisers about the locked doors trapping everyone in the room where the Wolfsbane alteration lecture occurs, but he hesitates to mention the werewolf trapped inside as well, at least until they hear shrieks from inside the room that come at the same moment James knows from the Bond that Snape transforms. Less than five minutes after that, the Aurors arrive. They're informed by a Patronus message from a Ministry worker inside the room that there are two werewolves trapped inside, only one under the influence of Wolfsbane, but both put in transfigured cages before they transformed.

With no way to get into the room until the person who Magic Locked it comes forward, there is nothing to be done. James is interrogated on what he knows then they try to make him go home. He refuses; Snape's calling through the Bond for his company, though James doubts its intentional, and he has to stay, but it takes a word from Nymphadora Tonks for the Aurors to agree.

He plans to remain human for the night, but the Bond feels twisted and unnatural with Snape as an animal and himself as human. It feels better to be a stag, so he changes. He registered his Animagus form shortly after Voldemort's downfall, so he doesn't have to worry about that, and he ignores the lingering hotel manager who fingers his wand, clearly unnerved by the huge stag sat in his lobby.

Prongs lifts his head when he hears a crash from inside the room, immediately followed by terrified screams and then the snapping and snarling of fighting wolves. Prongs stands, pawing at the ground and bellowing, familiar enough with the sounds after watching Moony and Padfoot fight when they were young. The nervous manager jumps and the two Aurors assigned to stay guard straighten up and draw their wands, for all the good it'll do. Prongs ignores them, stomping nervously at the ground and wishing he was inside to help Snape. He can already feel that he's taken injuries. He doubts the other werewolf in the room is as newly made as Snape is and for all Snape's skill in magical fights, Prongs knows he'll lose a battle right now. He didn't know his wolf body well enough use it to its full power, especially not against someone more in touch with their werewolf side and unhampered by a human mind that would detract them from animal instincts, as Snape is by being under the influence of the Wolfsbane.

*PSM*

Hermione feels sweat trickle down her skin as she struggles to keep the Shield Charm up, ignoring the throb in her arm and the blood soaking through her sleeve. She tries not to think about the fact that she's not sure if the injury came from teeth or claws and what it means for her if it's the former. She destroyed Snape's cage the moment she realised the other wolf was going to break out of his, but it wasn't quick enough to stop her getting hurt before Snape pounced on the other wolf.

"It's ready!"

She glances behind her, as does another wizard holding a Shield Charm in place. All the conference attendees and the organiser are huddled together on the stage, which now has thick ropes tied to transfigured hooks attached to each corner and looped over four more transfigured hooks charmed into the ceiling.

"On three," the organiser says, catching the eye of three others to make sure they're ready. "One, two, three—_Wingardium Leviosa!_"

The platform rises slowly into the air, lifting until the head of the tallest wizard brushes the ceiling, then four others cast spells to knot the ropes in place and the levitators hesitantly release their spells. There's a collective sigh of relief when the ropes hold and the stage remains suspended in mid air. Only then does Hermione cancel her Shield Charm and slump down, almost slipping over the edge of the stage if not for the quick grab of the nearest wizard.

"I'm Healer Scott McCabe," he tells her, crouching and stopping her from trying to rise. "Let me take a look at your arm."

She winces when he peels back her sleeve, but she's relieved to see that under the blood coating her arm there's four long gouges in her flesh.

"That's good," the man says with a reassuring smile that she doesn't doubt has calmed many nervous patients. "It doesn't look like you were bit. What's your name?"

She tells him and watches him siphon the blood from her skin with a spell then murmur another that strongly slows the bleeding though doesn't heal the wounds completely.

"I'm sorry to say it will probably scar, Hermione," he tells her as he digs a handkerchief from his pocket, transfigures it to bandages and begins wrapping them around her arm. "I cannot fully heal a wound like this with just spells and I don't have any potions on me."

"It's alright," she assures him. "Better a few scars than losing my life."

He smiles at her again. "I quite agree. I'm just concerned—"

He's cut off by a pain-filled yowl from below. Hermione looks down to see Snape—distinguishable by his black fur where the other wolf is a motley of browns—limping away from the other wolf, his rear left leg barely touching the floor as he moves. There's blood on his teeth and snout but not as much as is on the other, who leaps on Snape again, knocking him over and latching teeth into Snape's throat.

"Oh, god, he's going to kill him!"

Hermione's cry is punctuated by a thud of something hitting the doors from outside, hard enough to make them rattle.

"Can they be broken?" the stout witch asks and, without giving anyone time to answer, continues, "We could have got out!"

"Could we?" someone else asks the organiser, who very reluctantly answers, "I don't know. It would take a lot of force to—"

"We could have left!" the stout woman shrieks. "You trapped us here for nothing! We could have—"

"Stop it!" Hermione shouts, loud enough to make the other woman fall quiet and look at her. "Ma'am, there is no point berating anyone for what might have happened. We're stuck here for now, we need to stay calm."

"Calm? We're suspended above a pair of werewolves, how are we meant to stay calm?"

"We have to. Fighting will solve nothing and if things get heated someone might fall. As long as we're up here, we're safe."

"But—"

Whatever the woman has to say is drowned out by a shuddering blast and the doors of the room blowing off their hinges. They fly across the room, knock the brown wolf off Snape, and then a stag canters inside. The people on the platform gape as he charges at the brown wolf, lowering his head and ramming into him with his antlers. The wolf yelps and howls painfully as he's tossed towards the back of the room and the stag snorts, trotting around to stand over Snape, who lies bleeding and panting but manages to huff and nose at the stag's leg.

"What on earth...?" McCabe mutters.

"It's James Potter," Hermione says, unable to keep from smiling. "He's an Animagus."

And he's Bound to Snape. Hermione's researched magical bindings as part of her work, sure that bindings must be involved with why house elves are so eager to serve wizards, and learnt about the Animancupium when she did. She knows that if Snape dies then so will James, which means he'll defend Snape from the brown wolf with his life. He looks like he has the bulk and power to do it too.

Which only leaves the problem of whether the brown wolf will try to escape the room and attack people outside.

"What are they doing?"

It's the stout witch who speaks and referring to the two Aurors standing in the doorway, who appear to be on the end of a heated argument, gesturing between the fallen doors, the three animals, and the suspended platform. As she watches, one gives in and shoots her and the others an apologetic look as he and his partner withdraw and the doors fly back into place, trapping them all inside once more.

"Oh my god," Hermione hears someone breathe. "They didn't even try to help us."

Hermione looks back to the animals, the brown wolf now circling Prongs and Snape, clearly wanting to attack but also wary of Prongs and the antlers he angles towards him.

"What time is it?" someone asks. Next to Hermione, McCabe flicks his sleeve back to look at his watch.

"A little after midnight."

"When's sunrise?"

"About six," someone else answers. There's a pause as they each absorb that information, then the stout witch announces, "I can't hold my pee for that long."

*PSM*

"Professor?"

Snape blinks his eyes open and sees three people-shaped blurs with a grey background that comes into focus as Hermione, James, and a man Snape doesn't recognise bent over him with the ceiling above them. It takes him a minute to figure out why Hermione Granger of all people is bent over him looking worried, but the memories of the night before come back to him and he glances around to see a tired group of people making their way out of the lecture hall. The other wolf, also now human, is on the far side of the room, wrists bound with rope and a cloak thrown over him while two Aurors cast Ennervate on him.

He focuses his attention on himself. There's a cloak laid over him too and he tries not to think about the fact that a room full of people, including Hermione, have now seen him naked. Aside from feeling utterly shattered, his left leg throbs, there's claw marks raked along his side, and wounds across his neck and face that make him wince when he prods them, even though they've already healed almost to scars.

"I've healed what I could," the stranger says, then when Snape glances at him adds, "I'm Healer McCabe. Most of your injuries healed themselves before morning, but I fixed your broken leg and helped along those wounds on your face and neck. You're lucky James broke in when he did, or that fellow would have ripped your throat out."

"Rough night, eh, Severus?" James says, but the light tone doesn't quite hide his lingering worry over the night's events and Snape refrains from insulting him for being stupid enough to break into a room holding two werewolves. He remembers James' words about not wanting to die and James probably knew from the Bond that Snape was being seriously injured. He supposes he can't really complain about the man's interference.

He pushes himself into a sitting position, glowering when both Hermione and McCabe make motions as if to help him. He suppresses a wince as the movement pulls at his various injuries, but gladly accepts a bottle of water from Hermione, though makes sure the cloak is still preserving his dignity before drinking. She also returns his wand to him and he lets his eyes linger questioningly on the bandage wrapped around her arm as he takes it. She touches it with her other hand and smiles lightly.

"Just claw marks. I wasn't bit."

He can't find it in him to feel glad for her.

An Auror comes over then, a young wizard with close cut hair and a disdainful expression he doesn't quite manage to hide from Snape.

"Auror Straub," he introduces. He carries a set of simple grey robes and drops them onto Snape's lap. "If you could dress and come with me, Mr Snape."

"Come with you for what?" Snape asks sharply, wanting to rise but not trusting his ability to keep the cloak in place to cover himself as he does.

"We're taking statements from everyone," he answers dismissively. "Standard procedure."

"You're not taking anyone else to the Ministry," Hermione interjects. "Except the other werewolf."

Straub barely spares her a glance. "Please get dressed, Mr Snape."

"It's Professor," Snape corrects. "And I would like to know why I'm being detained at the Ministry when, as Miss Granger pointed out, no one but the other werewolf is." He pauses to give him a disdainful look before adding, "Or perhaps I'm to assume that's the reason."

Straub looks unconcerned by the accusation. "Last night's event was a planned attack and you've got a criminal background, Mr Snape."

"And you need to see a healer about your ears, Straub," says a new voice and Snape glances around to see a second Auror, a witch with short, dark purple hair. She shoots him a grin that he hasn't seen in years but instantly recognises. Tonks comes up to the three of them and annoyance flashes across Straub's face. "There's no need to take him in for his statement, Straub. Everyone else's agree that Snape here gave the warning that meant things were a lot less awful than they could've been."

"He did," Hermione agrees instantly. "He realised that man was a werewolf and let everyone know. Without his warning we'd all have been attacked."

"Not the actions of a conspirator, don't you agree, Straub?"

Straub mutters something that could be an agreement.

"Good. So why don't you find someone else's statement to take and I'll finish here."

Straub leaves and Tonks turns her attention fully to Snape. "Get dressed, professor, then go home and rest. We can get your statement later."

Snape nods his gratitude and Tonks leaves. Snape scowls at the three people still hovering around him.

"Might I have some space?"

Hermione, James, and McCabe shift away and he waves his wand, conjuring a curtain to hang in a circle around him then gets to his feet, wincing slightly when he puts weight on his left leg, and pulls on the clothes. Once dressed he vanishes the curtain and then glances at Hermione, gesturing to the cloak draped over his arm. "This is yours? I'll return it once cleaned," he tells her when she nods, then clears his throat, feeling slightly awkward but knowing he shouldn't leave without saying something. "Your actions last night were commendable."

She looks surprised, but then smiles widely. He suppresses the urge to scowl and instead mutters a brief thanks to McCabe, turns, and stalks out. James follows and says nothing as they leave, but when they get home and Snape crawls into bed after showering, James sits on the other bed and watches over him as he drifts to sleep.


	5. Autumn, Part 1

**Autumn, Part 1**

Snape flicks his gaze over the collected students as the last new first year is sorted into Hufflepuff. He doesn't applaud and pretends not to notice McGonagall's sidelong glare; it was acceptable when he was a Head of House, but as a supposedly unaffiliated teacher he's meant to applaud every new student. In his opinion, doing so would accomplish nothing more than making his hands hurt. He applauds the new Slytherins; that should really be enough.

As food appears on the tables and noise fills the Great Hall, Snape resists the urge to rub at the scars along his throat and lower face and ignores the looks from students checking out the new professor. They're already gossiping about him, he knows, and he wonders how many howlers he'll receive come morning. The events at the potions conference made the news and his face and name are too popular as father of the Boy Who Lived for him to avoid being outed as a werewolf. He has little hope that the positive spin the story gave him will do much to keep people from complaining about his teaching post, but McGonagall still floo called the day after to say she still wants him teaching and that she will fight anyone who tried to demand his resignation. Snape's grateful, though doubtful as to how successful she'll be.

What he's not grateful for is the new Herbology teacher sat on his left.

"I'm surprised you came back to teach, Snape."

"Not nearly as surprised as I am to find you teaching, Longbottom, I can assure you of that."

"I'm not a student anymore, Snape," Neville says, straightening his back. "You can't intimidate me now."

Snape pauses in cutting his steak—barely cooked when he used to take it well-done, but it tastes like heaven in his mouth—to turn his head slightly, baring his teeth in a snarl. "Sure about that, Longbottom?" he growls in a voice that's almost inhuman and is satisfied to see the younger man's face pale considerably.

"Severus."

Snape turns back to his dinner. "Minerva."

She leans forward in her seat to look past James. "Remember what I said to you when you took the job?"

"Of course."

"It also applies to your colleagues, and Monday's events aren't an excuse."

He sniffs. "I'll endeavour to be on my utmost best behaviour."

There's a snort from Aurora Sinistra, now Deputy Headmistress as well as Astronomy teacher and Slytherin Head of House. Snape glances down the table to see her with a smirk on her lips.

"Just remembering the last time you said that to Dumbledore," she says on catching his eye. "You tried to put Hufflepuff in the negatives for House Points."

"You'll have to be more specific, Aurora," Flitwick squeaks. "He did that repeatedly."

"I refuse to be held accountable for the little idiots' inability to do as they're told."

"Haven't changed much, have you, Severus?" Sinistra responds with a smile.

"Suddenly regretting my hiring decision," McGonagall mutters.

"I'm hurt, Minerva. I've done nothing to earn such vitriol."

"Yet."

He smirks and doesn't argue with her.

The rest of the meal passes unremarkably and Snape leans back in his seat as the food vanishes and McGonagall gets to her feet, drawing the students' attention.

"I extend my warmest welcome to the new students among us and give a sincere welcome back to our returning pupils. I would like to make a few announcements regarding staff changes for the year. Professor Lickman, our usual Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, gave birth to a healthy baby girl just ten days ago." She pauses for a brief cheer from the older students before carrying on. "She will be taking a year's maternity leave and the position will be filled by Professor Snape." Another pause for some notably unenthusiastic applause and a round of murmurs as those who hadn't paid attention before now notice his scars, his name, and recall either his reputation as an old Hogwarts professor, as father of the Boy Who Lived, or as someone closely involved with the final downfall of Voldemort.

"Secondly, Professor Sprout retired at the end of last year. In her place, Professor Santiago will be the new Head of Hufflepuff, and I would like to introduce Professor Longbottom as the new Herbology teacher."

The applause this time is louder, though whether because it's for two teachers or because Neville looks less intimidating than Snape is unclear. Neville smiles embarrassedly and gives a small wave and Snape doesn't quite roll his eyes, but it's close.

*PSM*

Snape watches the sixth years pile into the Defence classroom and is glad to see he hasn't lost the ability to keep an entire class silent just by his presence, but he tries not to consider the possibility that they're silent from fear of what he is. Several howlers arrived at breakfast that morning for him and McGonagall, denouncing him and claiming McGonagall to be losing her mind in old age if she's willing to hire a werewolf. McGonagall kept her cool; Snape barely managed to keep himself from smashing everything in sight.

When they're all seated and watching him expectantly, he goes through the register, looking up at each name to memorise faces. He's barely finished when the hand of Micheala Creevey, a Ravenclaw girl at the back, shoots into the air. She's got a bottle of water sat in the middle of her desk and hasn't taken her book from her bag yet. Snape already knows she's going to be trouble and he's wondering just how she's related to Colin and Dennis Creevey.

"What is it?"

"What was it like fighting that werewolf on Monday?"

"That," he says sharply, "is not relevant to NEWT level Defence Against the Dark Arts and I will not suffer irrelevant topics in my classroom."

He stands then and starts to make his way around the classroom as he speaks. "The Dark Arts are many, varied, ever-changing, and eternal. Fighting them is like fighting a many-headed monster, which, each time a neck is severed, sprouts a head even fiercer and cleverer than before. You are fighting that which is unfixed, mutating, indestructible.

"Your defences must therefore be as flexible and inventive as the arts you seek to undo. These pictures," he says, gesturing to the pictures he'd put onto the walls the day before in preparation, "give a fair representation of what happens to those who suffer, for instance, the Cruciatus Curse—" he waves a hand toward a witch who is clearly shrieking in agony "—feel the Dementor's Kiss—" a wizard lying huddled and blank-eyed, slumped against a wall "—or provoke the aggression of the Inferius." A bloody mass upon the ground.

"But we wouldn't ever meet something like that," says a Gryffindor boy by the name of Jeffery King. "Those are the kind of things that were around during the War."

"You're a fool if you think war is the only time you will encounter the Dark Arts, Mr King. Yes, there were a greater number of wizards using dark magic openly during the War, but just because it's over does not mean they have all gone. I can guarantee you that for every criminal in Azkaban there is a witch or wizard walking free who would, given the opportunity, use an Unforgivable or other dark magic on you without hesitation."

"Like you."

The silence that fills the classroom is thick enough to choke on. Snape stares at Micheala Creevey and the rest of the class makes a point of looking anywhere but at the two of them. Micheala stares back.

"I've heard from my cousin about you," she continues. "He told me how you used the Killing Curse on your own son in the middle of the Great Hall. So why aren't you in Azkaban with all the other Death Eaters?"

"Perhaps you ought to ask your cousin, Miss Creevey. He appears to have neglected several key parts of that story. Afterwards if you're still so eager to understand the workings of the Wizengamot and British wizarding courts, you can drop this class and spend the time reading trial transcripts instead. Evidently you're more concerned with history than defence and I've already made it clear that I will not tolerate irrelevant topics. If the next thing out of your mouth isn't related to Defence Against the Dark Arts, Creevey, I will throw you out."

He turns and continues his rounds of the classroom. "You are, I believe, complete novices in the use of non-verbal spells. What is the advantage of—"

He hears the twist of a bottle cap, the sound of decompressed air, and a slosh of liquid, and gets an all too familiar whiff. He whirls, eyes fixing back on Micheala just as she lowers the bottle of not-water from her mouth. The girl's eyes narrow, clearly not realising exactly why Snape's attention is on her. Snape stalks up to her desk.

"Give me that."

Micheala caps the bottle and doesn't hand it over. "We're allowed water in classes, professor. You can't confiscate—hey!"

Snape snatches the bottle from her, uncaps it and lifts it to his nose, sniffing just to make doubly sure even as Michaela's expression tells of her guilt. Clenching his jaw in anger at the girl's nerve and his hand in an attempt to fight the sudden urge to glug back the vodka in the bottle, he draws his wand and vanishes bottle and contents.

"Detention," he says in a voice so low Micheala has to lean forwards to hear it. "Eight o'clock this evening, my office. Now get out."

"What?"

"Get. Out."

Micheala grabs her bag and almost runs out the room. Only when the door has shut behind her does Snape inhale deeply, wishing the sharp scent of vodka didn't linger in his nose, and turn, stalking to the front of the classroom.

"Who can tell me the advantage of non-verbal spells?" he asks, determined to continue as though never interrupted.

*PSM*

James stops by the Defence classroom on his way to lunch the first day of classes, reaching it just as a third year Slytherin class lets out. He waits for the last stragglers to file out then slips into the classroom, grinning at Snape.

"So, how was it?"

Snape glances up from the pile of parchment he's neatening, eyes flicking to the door before settling back on James.

"Micheala Creevey brought vodka into the first class thinking she could get away with pretending it was water."

"That's not good," James grimaces. "What did you do?"

"Vanished it, gave her detention, and kicked her out of the classroom. This was after she asked why I wasn't in Azkaban for using the Killing Curse on Harry."

James winces. "She's... difficult. Incredibly intelligent, but difficult. I think because she's so intelligent."

"Are you really going to try and excuse bad behaviour because of intelligence?"

James smiles, leaning against one of the desk and folding his arms over his chest. "No. Not entirely anyway. It's just she has this ability to absorb anything she reads. I don't just mean she memorises it, but she can read a chapter from a text book once and remember and understand it completely enough to apply that knowledge. She's a complete genius and it probably gets overwhelming sometimes."

"It doesn't give her the right to misbehave. It certainly doesn't excuse bringing alcohol to class. It's the first day of lessons and this was her first class. She was drinking before ten o'clock in the morning. That's not just difficult, James, that's a problem."

"Yeah, that is concerning. She's not done anything like that before, that I know of. You should probably alert Flitwick, and McGonagall. We're going to have to keep a closer eye on her. I'm going to lunch; you coming?"

*PSM*

Hermione blinks as a paper plate holding a slice of chocolate cake with white icing and the letter C on it is set down on top of her paperwork, then looks up as Enfys sidles past to zir own desk and sits down with a slice of zir own, a napkin tucked in the front of zir blouse to protect it from mess.

"What's this for?"

"Percy Weasley is celebrating his engagement upstairs. I managed to snag a couple of slices. You look like you could do with some."

"That's ni- what do you mean by that?" she interrupts herself, looking over at zir. Enfys sits with zir feet on the corner of zir desk, chair pushed back on two legs, and forks a bit of cake into zir mouth, chewing slowly and clearly content to keep Hermione waiting for an answer. "I thought you were watching your figure anyway."

Zie glances away guiltily, swallows, but looks back and says, "You've been moody all week."

"I have not."

"Yes, you have. Ever since that potions conference on Monday. If I didn't know better, I'd say you met someone and now you're miserable because nothing happened, but I know that's not true because if you'd met someone, you would have told me."

She picks up the fork on her plate and slices off a piece of cake, nodding an agreement to zir statement. "You're right, I would have told you," she says and pops the cake in her mouth. She hears Enfys' chair thump down onto four legs and doesn't need to look over to see zie's taken zir feet from the desk.

"You _did_."

"I didn't."

"Hermione Granger, you're a liar. Who are they? What do they look like?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Enfys."

"Bollocks you don't."

She glances up at the sound of movement to see zir dragging zir is chair around zir desk and over to hers, eyes gleaming and cake forgotten. "Spill it, Hermione."

"There's nothing to spill."

"Was it someone on the platform? Fondness brewed from forced close quarters?"

"There was no one and nothing," she insists, taking another bite of cake.

"I don't believe you. C'mon," zie wheedles. "I haven't got any action in ages. You can at least let me live vicariously through you."

She laughs, almost choking on her cake, and when she manages to clear her lungs she shoots zir an incredulous look. "Enfys, you were dating that insanely tall Auror back in... February?"

"Exactly. That was months ago and she broke my heart."

"I haven't seen anyone in _years_. If we're really serious, I haven't had a proper relationship since my teen years."

"You dated that nervous fellow from the Muggle Liaison Office."

"It was one date and it was a disaster."

"And now you're letting it stop you from doing anything with this person you met at the conference."

She scoffs. "That's the last thing stopping me from doing anything with him," she says, then curses as zie lets out a triumphant shout.

"I knew it. Spill, Hermione. What's his name? What's he like?"

"I'm not talking about it."

Zie pouts. "Why not?"

"Because it's ridiculous, that's why."

"Love is never ridiculous, darling."

"Good Merlin, it's definitely not _love._ Don't even joke about that."

Zir lips twitch but zie concedes. "Attraction, then."

"I don't think it's that either. Not physically, anyway."

"Then what? Tell me."

She sighs and sets down her plate. "It's Severus Snape."

There's a slight pause, then, "Oh."

She groans and drops her head to the desk. "Told you it's ridiculous."

"Well he's certainly not much of a looker, but... I'm sure he has... redeeming... qualities. Sort of killed You Know Who, didn't he? And saved an entire roomful of people from a werewolf mauling. That has to count for something."

"It must count for everything," Hermione grumbles. "I don't even _understand_ it. He's not that attractive physically, he's not a pleasant man, _and_ he's old enough to be my father. He was my school teacher and I was best friends with his son, for crying out loud. There's no plausible reason for my sudden attraction."

"So make yourself understand. You're a smart woman; think about it. Either you'll realise there's nothing you find attractive in him and move on, or you'll realise there's something appealing and ask him on a date. It's not that terrifying," zie adds at her horrified expression.

"You just suggested asking Severus Snape on a date."

Zie shrugs and drags zir chair back to zir own desk. "You're the one that's inexplicably attracted to him. I'm just following the obvious train of actions."

"There are no obvious trains of action in a situation like this. Any trains in situations like this have derailed and tried to drive across country and over water."

"Now you're just being dramatic."

"Trust me, if you'd been educated at Hogwarts under Snape, you'd understand that dramatic is perfectly reasonable in this situation."

*PSM*

Micheala Creevy turns up at Snape's office at five to eight. Snape points her to a small table set to one side with some parchment, ink, a quill, and a book on it.

"You're to copy out the highlighted passages on the marked pages."

She sits and pulls the book towards her, reading the title and then looking up at him. "I'm not an alcoholic, professor."

"Is that so." It's not a question and he doesn't look up from the third year holiday essays he's marking.

"I was testing your boundaries. New teacher and all."

"I strongly advise against that, Miss Creevey. You should start writing; if you don't finish it tonight you will serve another detention tomorrow."

She makes an irritated sound but opens _A Wizard's Guide to Addiction: Non Magical Substances _to the first marked page and picks up the quill.

* * *

**Elsewhere**

Harry sighs and puts down the jug in which he's beating eggs yolks and sugar for a souffle. Miniature horses, hippogriffs, dragons, and all manner of other animals are trotting over his kitchen surfaces, flying around his head, and getting underfoot.

"Mum, it's really hard to cook when you're filling the place with illusions."

Lily looks at him without a speck of guilt. "Elaborate illusions which I shouldn't be able to conjure without a wand and some fancy spell work. Unless, of course, I was actually a reaper with a reaper's abilities to manipulate the world around them and this is all in your head."

He glowers at her, clearly not in the mood for her attempts at convincing him of the truth. "Mum, you're powerful. You've always been powerful. You're who I inherited my power from."

"You have skills far greater than I do even as a reaper. You got your powers—"

"_Don't_," he interrupts with an angry sigh. "I didn't sell my soul to a demon. Just stop it, will you?"

He takes up the jug and whisk again and Lily vanishes the illusions, getting up from her seat and moving around the breakfast bar to stand by him.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?"

"Maybe I'm just sick of you saying I'm insane and imagining everything."

"Don't lie to your mother, Harry."

He doesn't answer, just whisks the eggs unnecessarily hard.

"Sweetheart, talk to me."

He sighs again, puts down the jug and turns to her, leaning forward and resting his forehead against her shoulder. She brings her arms up to wrap around him.

"I've been dreaming. Having nightmares."

"Of what?" she asks, but she already knows the answer.

"Everything you say. Getting tortured, killing people, Draco dying. It's stupid."

"It's not stupid. It's understandable."

"It's not," he counters and for a moment she thinks he's going to pull away from the hug, but he remains in place. "It's just a stupid story; I shouldn't be dreaming about it."

"It's reality, Harry," she says softly. "All those things happened and of course you're going to have nightmares about it."

"Tell me it's just a story. Please."

"I can't. I won't."

He does pull away then, looking at her sadly before turning back to the jug and saying nothing more. She watches him, wondering how to proceed next. It's not easy to discuss the issue with him, trying to convince him of her words when he decides to simply ignore her, or making sure she doesn't irritate him to the point where he throws her out, which has happened a few times. But it turns out she doesn't have to, because after a few minutes silence in which he beats the eggs and then adds them to the mixture in a saucepan waiting nearby, he says, "Draco says I make the house shake sometimes."

"What do you mean?"

"In my sleep. He says when I have nightmares, my magic lashes out and makes the whole house shake like it's trying to crash down on us. He says I won't wake up when I do it."

"Does it scare him?"

He shakes his head, now mixing the saucepan's contents, but admits, "It scares me. What if I... hurt us?"

She doesn't comment on his brief pause, almost certain that the word kill passed through his mind. She's not sure what to say to him; there's sometimes no accounting for the physics in Elsewhere. If the house did collapse, it might kill Harry and Draco, but it might also leave them completely untouched or even simply disappear. An event like that is entirely dependent on Harry's magic because it's caused by Harry's magic. Moreover, even if they did die, she's not sure what would happen to them. In all honestly, she's not sure Draco can die, already being dead, but she does think there's a chance it might jolt Harry back to reality.

If she was a different person, she might kill him to find out. But she's not, so she doesn't.

"I don't think you'll hurt either of you," she tells him eventually. "You care too much; even in sleep, your magic will protect Draco and yourself."

She's not sure that's true, but it seems to be enough for Harry.

* * *

"You look harried today, Mr Potter."

James turns his head aside and huffs out a breath. "First week of term. Always a bit hectic."

"I didn't know you taught."

He gives her a look of mild curiosity, hearing the surprise in her tone. "Is that surprise because you think I'm not suited to teaching, or because you didn't expect the Governors to let me after...?" He trails off, but thinks she'll know what he means. He's comfortable talking about his time as a Death Eater and the end of his reign as Hogwarts Headmaster, but then he hadn't lost a son.

"The Governors," she answers, giving no indication either way as to whether the veiled reference to that time bothers her, "but also I hadn't considered you one for teaching. I understand you did well as a Defence professor, but I had assumed you took that position because of Sirius rather than any desire to actually teach. I seem to recall you were an Auror before..."

He's not sure if her trailing off is a nod of courtesy to his own vagueness, or if she's uncomfortable mentioning James' time living in her cellar.

"Auror didn't seem quite fitting anymore," he says with a shrug that knocks them out of step. He apologises, then, when they've got the rhythm back, continues, "I did only take the Defence post because of Sirius, but I found I enjoyed teaching. The Governors were reluctant to let me teach again, but Minerva spoke on my behalf and they agreed under the condition I stay under probation for the first year." He pauses, then adds in a faintly amused tone, "They spot check my classes occasionally, but they do it for everyone now and it seems a bit egotistical to assume the Department of Education went to all that trouble of instating a new law just to keep an eye on me."

Her mouth quirks in what might almost be a smile. "From what I recall of your years at school, such egotism wouldn't be out of place."

She manages to surprise him with that. "You remember me at school? You were several years ahead of me, weren't you?"

She nods. "A sixth year when you started, but you and Sirius made quite the impression on the whole school, even then. I've never been sure whether the reports of you getting worse as you got older were true or exaggerations on Regulus and Severus' part."

"Oh, they were true," he says with a grin. "Terrors of Hogwarts, we were. Though if all the stories you heard were from Severus and Regulus, you probably heard the worst of us."

"So you didn't spend all your time ambushing defenceless Slytherins?"

James snorts. "We didn't ambush them, per se, and they were hardly defenceless. Severus could give as good as he got most of the time and Regulus... well, I never ambushed him. That was mostly Sirius. Little snot deserved it anyway."

Narcissa doesn't argue with him, because she's fairly certain Regulus 'deserved it' for being the obedient pureblood son that Sirius never was, and she has no desire to ruin their dance by bringing up the tense issue of pureblood politics, which are the kind of things Lucius tortured James into believing. But she wonders if he thinks of that anyway because he ducks his head slightly, eyes flicking away from her, and missteps, prompting Zoe over to correct their form.

*PSM*

James parts from Narcissa and bows slightly while she curtsies then they both turn to the front of the hall as Zoe calls for their attention.

"Just a reminder that the All Saints Day Ball is now only seven weeks away. If you wish to participate you need to have applied by October first. Forms are by the gramophone. Enjoy the rest of your weekend."

James spares once last glance and a nod to Narcissa then goes to the rack where his robes and cloak hang, pulling them on then drinking down the last of his water before heading for the exit, but he stops outside to breath in the cool Somerset air, letting it chill the sweat still clinging to his skin.

"Mr Potter?"

He turns. "Ms Black. Can I help you?"

She's holding a copy of the poster for the All Saints Ball. "I wished to ask if you would object to attending the ball."

"You want to? With me?" he asks dumbly, then flushes slightly when a condescending smile flickers across her face.

"Aside from perhaps Mr Marshall, you are the best dancer in the group, and Mrs Marshall said they both compete every year."

"Yes, they do. May I?" He holds a hand out for the poster and she hands it to him to look over. "It might be fun I suppose."

"I would compete to win, Mr Potter. I hope you realise that."

He glances at her face, noting the expression that reminds him of the look Sirius would get when he was determined to go through with a complex prank. "Of course." He pauses, then asks, "You believe we could?"

"Have I not already said as much? If you wish to consider the matter, you can answer me next Friday or send an owl to Grimmauld Place."

He looks at her in surprise. "Grimmauld Place? You don't live at Malfoy Manor anymore? I'm sorry," he adds hurriedly when her face tightens. "That's not my concern. I won't need to consider it; I will compete at the ball. Do we need to fill in separate applications?"

"No, just one between us. I will do it and owl it in the morning."

"Alright," he agrees, but looks down at the poster again and gestures to the bottom. "I'll bring my half of the entry fee next week. Is that everything?"

She nods, folding an application form and slipping it into her pocket. "Good night, Mr Potter."

"Good night, Ms Black."

He watches her walk a short distance from him and Disapparate, then does so himself, reappearing in Hogsmeade High Street. He walks up to the school briskly; the air in Scotland is much colder than in Somerset. When he enters the castle he finds McGonagall shooing a few fifth years along, it being nearly their curfew.

"Good evening, Professor Potter," she greets.

"Headmistress. Are you heading up to your office?"

She nods and he gestures to the main staircase then moves into step beside her.

"Been ballroom dancing, haven't you?"

"Yes. I wanted to ask you something about that actually. There's a ball—a competition, in truth—on the first of November."

"You're going to compete?"

He nods. "But it's a Monday and the competition starts at four. I have a second year class last on Mondays; would you, or one of the others, mind covering it for me so I can attend?"

"That shouldn't be a problem. Do you have a new partner then? Didn't you say something about your last partner losing her leg? How _did_ that happen?"

"Marilyn, yes she did. She works at the British Zoo of Mystical and Magical Creatures and from what I heard some teen got in the hippogriff pen, upset one of them, and Marilyn stepped in the way."

"Unpleasant."

"I'll say."

"And your new partner?"

James clears his throat, glancing down at his feet as they walk along a third floor corridor. "Someone you know, actually."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Um... Narcissa Black."

McGonagall stops abruptly, turning to face him fully. "Is that wise, James?" she asks, dropping to an informality she normally uses only in private.

He quirks a smile. "It's just dancing, Minerva."

Her lips purse. "But Narcissa Black, James? Lucius Malfoy's wife? That's..."

"Ex-wife, and it's been seven years, Minerva. Not to mention Narcissa had nothing to do with all that anyway. I've got no grudge against her and as far as I can tell she's got none against me. We've been partners all summer."

She huffs a small sigh, but begins walking again and they reach the stairs going up to the fifth floor. "Well. If you think everything's fine. I'll see you in the morning."

He nods. "Good night, Headmistress."

"Good night."

She heads up and he turns down an adjacent corridor, heading the short distance to a door which he opens with a muttered password and steps into the sitting room he shares with Snape. With both of them teaching, there's no point in them travelling to and from the castle each day and McGonagall gave them shared quarters with separate bedrooms. Snape complained that they weren't as big as his old Hogwarts quarters and continued to grumble even after McGonagall pointed out he was staying only a year, so could hardly expect the sizeable rooms he had when he was a permanent staff member and Head of House.

Snape's sprawled along the sofa with a potions journal, frowning heavily at it as he reads, mouth moving in a silent murmur. James doesn't try speaking to him, just toes off his shoes then moves to the bathroom (also shared, also a source of grumbling to Snape) and strips out of his clothes, dumping them in the laundry before climbing in the shower.

Snape's not moved when he gets out and goes to his room, but by the time he's dressed in pyjamas and pulled on a dressing gown, he re-enters the sitting room to find Snape sat up, the journal resting on his thighs and a self-inking quill in hand to scribble on it. James flops down beside him and watches until Snape straightens up, sitting back and resting his right arm along the arm of the sofa, quill twirling between his fingers, eyes still on the journal even as he asks, "Good evening?"

"Not bad. Narcissa asked me to take part in the All Saints Day Ball competition."

The quill stops twirling and Snape looks at him. "A competition? Against Narcissa?"

"With. She's my partner, remember? Don't you start as well," he adds when Snape's mouth curls down slightly. "I've already had it from Minerva."

Snape blinks. "Had what from Minerva?"

"_Concern._ It's like you expect Narcissa to suddenly hex me and drag me off to Malfoy Manor or something. As if I can't defend myself even if she tried."

Snape snorts and returns his gaze to the journal, twirling the quill again. "Hardly. That's not her style. She'd seduce you and lure you back to the Manor."

"I think I'm the last person Narcissa Black is going to seduce."

"Thank Merlin for small mercies," Snape mutters.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I've got better things to do than rescue you from the seductions of Narcissa Black."

"Aww," James coos mockingly. "You'd rescue me. I feel so special."

Snape scowls but doesn't look up, putting quill to page and circling something then putting a question mark by it. "You're mine. I'd have to, though I could probably convince Minerva to help at least." He pauses, then adds, "That was oddly possessive."

"But true."

Snape glances at him then. "You know I don't want this Bond anymore than you do."

"I know. Just saying. It's probably the wolf, anyway."

"What?"

"The possessiveness."

"What do you mean?"

"You remember during your first transformation when you put your teeth to my throat? It was a dominance thing," he continues when Snape nods hesitantly. "Defining yourself as the alpha. I'm pack now, so you've got the pull of the Bond and pack loyalty to create possessiveness."

"Pack," Snape repeats as if it's a dirty word. "You're not even a werewolf."

James shrugs. "Didn't stop me being alpha to the Marauders pack."

Snape's lip curls into a sneer. "You called yourselves a pack?"

"Maybe not when human, but as animals, yeah. We were pack. Odd, mixed breed pack with only one wolf, but pack anyway."

"And you were the alpha."

"You think Moony would have been? You know what he was like in school. I was the leader, so I was the alpha. Anyway," he says, wanting to get away from the topic of Marauders and their school years, which would inevitably put Snape in a bad mood, "what are you doing? What is that?"

Snape doesn't argue the change of topic. "It's the official publication of Herman Gripshaw's 'improved' Wolfsbane Potion."

"You say improved like you disagree."

Snape hums. "Supposedly it makes the transformation marginally less painful, but I can't see that the changes he's made would cause such an effect as to be worth it, given that they increase the risk of side effects to include arrhythmia and hypertension. I suppose I'll find out in a couple of weeks."

"Is that why you've scribbled all over it?"

Snape shoots him a withering glare that James ignores. "I haven't 'scribbled' all over it. I've made notes."

"That's not a note," James remarks, pointing to the circle and question mark.

"No," Snape agrees quietly. "That's something I haven't figured out yet."

James waits a moment, but Snape doesn't seem to be any more forthcoming and James doesn't bother asking. He doesn't generally understand most of what Snape says when he starts on with his potions theories. James is reasonable at the subject himself—he got an E in his NEWT—but compared to Snape he's like a first year student and inevitably gets completely lost when Snape starts talking.

He starts to get up, intending to find himself something to do, but abruptly sits down again as Snape's words go through his mind again. "Hold on, should you be trying this new version?"

Snape frowns at him. "Why shouldn't I?"

"You said it increases the chances of hypertension and your blood pressure is bad enough as it is."

"My blood pressure is fine."

"It's borderline, and only since you switched to decaf."

"I am fine. As I said, I don't expect it to reduce the pain that much but I want to see for myself. I'll use the usual version after this."

"Severus," James says disapprovingly. "If this spikes your blood pressure you could have a stroke or a heart attack. And I don't know how to help a werewolf having a stroke or heart attack."

"Call a vet?" Snape suggests.

"This isn't a joke, Severus. You shouldn't risk your health like this. You shouldn't risk _mine_."

Snape scowls. "I'm not going to have a stroke, James. The risk increase isn't that great."

"At least discuss it with a healer."

"Fine. If it will make you feel better I will talk to Poppy about it."

"Thank you."

*PSM*

"I've figured it out!"

Enfys jerks zir head up from zir desk, a bit of notepaper stuck to one cheek, and declares, "I'm working!"

Hermione giggles. Enfys blinks at her then slumps in zir chair. "Oh, it's just you. Er, did you say something?"

"I said I've figured it out," she repeats as Enfys takes the notepaper from zir cheek and chucks it down on zir desk then smooths the wrinkles out of zir dress.

"Figured what out?"

"Snape."

Enfys perks up, leaning forwards with a gleam in zir eye. "Well?"

"I'm not attracted to him. I'm just impressed by his willingness to take on a werewolf, even though he's one himself, and grateful that because of him I didn't get eaten. That's all."

"Is that right."

She nods emphatically. "Gratitude and relief to be alive. It would have happened with anyone in his position. I probably only thought it was attraction because of... um... seeing him naked."

"You _WHAT?_"

Hermione's cheeks go pink. "Their clothes get shredded when they transform and in the morning when he turned back... well, you know. It was impossible not to see... him."

Enfys grins broadly. "Miss Granger, you tart."

Hermione splutters. "I wasn't—he was the one who—it's not like I _wanted_ to! It was completely accidental."

Enfys just keeps grinning. "So?"

"So what?"

"What was he like? He's not the best looking bloke in the world, but he could be fit as an athlete under those robes."

"Enfys!" she cries, face burning. "That's completely—I mean, I wasn't _looking_—and even if I wanted to, the situation—and he was injured and bloody, besides, so it's just—you're a _pervert_," she declares, eliciting a snort of laughter. "And attracted to women, I thought."

"I am. But we're mates. If you can't talk about these things with me, who can you talk about it with?"

"No one," she says emphatically. "I am not talking about Severus Snape's nudity to anyone. Ever."

"So you're not going to ask him out on a date then?"

She shoots zir a glare and doesn't deign to answer, instead taking up her quill, dipping it in ink and bending over the papers scattered across her desk. She hears shuffling of papers from the other desk then a light thump and glances over to see Enfys with zir head on the desk again.

"Better not let Bob catch you sleeping."

Enfys grunts. "He could have let me have today off. He had to know I wouldn't be fit for work."

"He let you have yesterday off."

"For my sister's wedding. Everyone knows weddings are ideal opportunities to get plastered. And I got very, very plastered. Then I had to get up at seven o'clock in the morning and work while my sister and her new hubby are off in Barbados."

"That's the joy of being newlyweds."

"I should get married," zie declares. "I'd kill for two weeks in Barbados."

"I'm pretty sure the honeymoon isn't a good reason to get married."

"Course it is," zie argues, lifting zir head to look over. "What'd'ya think, Hermione? Marry me so we can spend two weeks with sun, sea, and sand."

"How can I say no to such a romantic proposition?" she responds dryly.

"Excellent. I'll book the honeymoon, you go down to legal and set a date in the registry office."

"I'll do nothing of the sort until you put a ring on my finger."

Enfys affects a dramatic sigh. "Such effort. You're lucky you're worth it."

Hermione snorts, shaking her head and bending over her work again, but smiles.

*PSM*

James Apparates into the square of Grimmauld Place and looks up at number twelve. In his left pocket, he fingers the letter he received three days ago and glances around the square, which is littered with a few people but no one of note. Narcissa requested he come for extra practices for the competition and he saw no reason not to. He inhales and lets it out slowly, runs his hands over his robes to brush out the crinkles, then starts forward across the street. He climbs the few stone steps leading up to the front door and knocks. He's waiting only a moment before the door opens and he's greeted by Pippin, Narcissa's house elf.

"Mistress is waiting for Mister Potter in the drawing room, if Mister Potter is please following Pippin."

He follows her through to the drawing room. The last time James saw it, it was still dusty and inhospitable, but now it's perfectly clean and filled with light from a chandelier, the old carpet replaced by light wooden flooring. A lounge sofa sits under the largest window and three chairs encircle the fireplace. A table is pushed off to one side and a gramophone sits atop it. Narcissa stands in front of a window but turns to face him when he enters, greeting him with a small smile.

"Good evening, Mr Potter."

"Good evening. The house has cleaned up beautifully."

Narcissa's smile grows and turns more sincere. "Thank you. It was in quite a deplorable state and it always was a miserable house, even when I was young. I've enjoyed redecorating and refurbishing the place. As much as I can, anyway," she adds. "My family was overly fond of Permanent Sticking Charms. But shall we begin?"

She half turns to gesture to the gramophone and he nods. "Do you mind if I strip off my robe?"

"No," she answers with a frown, "but you will have to wear robes for the competition. If you object to wearing nothing under your robes, you might want to get used to dancing in robes and underclothes."

"I don't object to just robes for the dance," he assures her. "Extra layers are better in Hogwarts, that's all. It's habit to wear clothes under my robes."

"Very well." She flicks her wand at the gramophone then steps into position, settling her hands on him as he puts his on her. The music begins and they start moving.

"Can I ask," James begins shortly after they begin, "have you thought about outfits for the competition? I assume something matching and... tasteful? I don't know much about fashion," he says apologetically.

"Complimentary, Mr Potter, not matching. If you don't object, we'll visit Twilfitt and Tatting's in Diagon Alley one day for a fitting."

"Suits me. I'll trust your judgement on picking something suitable and just bring myself and my money. It'll have to be a weekend."

"Of course. We needn't any sooner than mid October."

"The sixteenth? I'll be able to get out of chaperoning the Hogsmeade weekend."

She raises delicate eyebrows. "Shirking your duties, Mr Potter? How unbecoming of a Hogwarts professor."

He cocks a grin. "Only sometimes."

*PSM*

Snape huffs a sigh and thumps his tail against the floor then gets up, stretches, and walks around the sitting room. Prongs watches him from the centre. Snape ignores him. A few days ago, and then again earlier in the day, James suggested spending the full moon in the forbidden forest. Under the Wolfsbane, Snape isn't a threat to anyone so there's little reason they can't run through the trees as animals should, but Snape refused, saying he wasn't an animal and he refused to act like one

Now, with a body that is an animal and an awareness of the snarling beast in his mind that the Wolfsbane suppresses, he wonders if maybe he should have said yes. He's full of restless energy. No potion changes the fact that the body he's in wants to run and be free. He expended the energy through fighting during the August full moon, and through play fighting in July, but there's no space for that in his Hogwarts rooms and he's not sure it'd be enough anyway. July was his first transformation; a lot of the energy went into simply acclimatising to the change.

Then he hears something that makes him freeze in mid prowl, ears pricking up and hackles rising slightly—a distant howl. Prongs gets up, one hoof pawing at the floor. Snape goes to the window; it's too high for him to see anything but sky out of, but he listens, waiting, and then hears it again, closer this time. Before he's even thought about it he bounds up with his front legs, shifting his weight to his back legs, and sets both front paws on the windowsill, growling. It gives him the height to look out across the grounds. He can see the edge of the Quidditch pitch to the left but beyond that he can see the forest and he's fairly certain that's where the howl is coming from.

Prongs trots over and nudges him with his nose. Snape ignores him, waiting, and when the howl sounds again he responds with one of his own, thinking himself ridiculous even as he does. But his body wants to despite what his conscious mind thinks, and as the howl fades his mind catches up to what his body is saying—there's wolves out in the forest howling invites, impinging on his territory and daring to call for him as though they have the right to be there, and he just wants to go out and chase them off.

*PSM*

Two days later Snape gets a letter at breakfast that consists of only six words: _Next month you run with us_. Underneath there's a signature of a pawprint.

* * *

**A/N:** Snape's DADA speech at the beginning is taken from HBP.


	6. Autumn, Part 2

**Autumn, Part 2**

Hermione walks slowly along Diagon Alley, cheerfully sipping a latte and window shopping during her lunch break. It's a beautiful day and she's feeling good about herself after sitting through a Wizengamot meeting that voted to pass her House Elf Protection Bill, which made it illegal for house elf owners to abuse them, including restrictions on what was acceptable punishment for elves to inflict on themselves at their master's orders. She isn't jaded enough to think it'll stop all abuse anymore than murder being illegal stopped people killing, but she's pleased about it nevertheless. It's progress. It might make some people think twice before attacking their elves and it meant abusers could be punished by the law.

As well as that, she has an offer from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to transfer over if she wants and she's certainly tempted. Aside from the better pay and fringe benefits of working in the largest department in the Ministry, she can do a lot of good in the DMLE, but she also does good in the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. She quite enjoys her work there, but she does hope to one day move into the DMLE; she just isn't sure if she wants to do it now. On the other hand, if she turns it down now, she might not get another chance for a number of years. Torn as she is, the mere fact that she has an offer—one she hadn't applied for—does wonders for her self-esteem.

"Miss Granger!"

She pauses and turns to see a vaguely familiar woman approaching her down the alley. She's dark, her long hair pulled in a ponytail, wearing simple black robes over a grey trouser suit, and she comes up to Hermione, greeting her with a smile and holding out a hand.

"Miss Granger, I was hoping to meet you. I'm Lisa Patterson, Unspeakable."

"Oh, hi." She shakes the hand, but there's still something about her that tugs at Hermione's memory, something Hogwarts-related. "Were we at school together?" she asks, the memory bugging her.

"Briefly. I was a few years older than you and a Slytherin. Head Girl in ninety-four/ninety-five, the year Sirius Black broke out of Azkaban."

"Oh, yes, I remember." She always made a point to know the Head Boy and Girl each year at Hogwarts despite the rest of her year mates seeming to not bother. "Ah... can I help you?"

"Let's walk," Lisa suggests and they carry on towards the Leaky Cauldron. "I heard you had an offer to transfer to the DMLE."

Hermione glances at the other woman. "I didn't know the Department of Mysteries made a habit of tracking employees."

Lisa gives a wan smile. "We don't. We just track certain employees."

Hermione raises her eyebrows.

"We've been interested in you since you finished at Hogwarts," Lisa answers the unasked question. "Your NEWT results do rank in the top ten in the country for all subjects, and that after starting your seventh year a term late."

Hermione flushes with pride, unable to stop the smile spreading across her face. After Voldemort's death, she went to Australia to return her parents' memories and they stayed there until Christmas. When she returned to Hogwarts in January, she worked extra hard to be able to pass her NEWTs that June and she was immensely proud of herself for not only succeeding but doing it with such high scores.

"I was hoping," Lisa says as they reach the Leaky Cauldron, "that you might free up your lunch hour sometime in the next few days to come down and see me. I wanted to discuss your other possible avenues of interest within the Ministry."

Hermione stops just inside the pub, unable to keep the surprise off her face. "You... are you offering me a job?"

"I'm offering you the chance to explore your options. The DMLE likes to think they're the only department in the Ministry and have a habit of overshadowing the rest of us. Not that we mind in the DoM, given the nature of our work, but... like I said, come and see me one time this week and we'll have a chat over lunch."

Hermione nods. "Alright. Thank you."

*PSM*

The following day, Hermione heads to the elevators at lunch and hits the button for the ninth floor. She's the only one to step out there and moves with butterflies in her stomach to the entrance to the Department of Mysteries. She's never been in there before—she got the impression from a lot of people that very few people who don't work in the DoM ever visit—and she hesitates outside the door before pushing through.

She's not sure what to expect, but a circular black room lined with blue-flamed torches and a dozen other doors isn't it. She steps further into the room, closing the door behind her, and then lets out a small shriek of surprise when the walls spin. That lasts for several seconds before they come to a halt and she realises that she has no idea which door to go through, or even which she came from.

But fourteen years in the magical world hasn't left her completely clueless. She clears her throat and says loudly, "I'm here to see Lisa Patterson. My name's—"

A door swings open. Peering through, she sees a corridor like any other in the Ministry, lined with doors that undoubtedly lead into offices. Then she remembers where she is and rethinks that. They could probably lead anywhere.

She steps into the corridor, but her first guess seems to have been correct. Each door sports a neat label with someone's name on it. She passes them, looking for the one she's after, and doesn't find it until the end. To her surprise, Lisa Patterson's door doesn't just contain her name, but underneath that: _Department Head_.

Her respect for the woman jumps. A department head at little over thirty? That's good in the Muggle world, she knows; in the wizarding world, where everyone lives so much longer and progresses a little slower, it's incredible.

*PSM*

"Ah, Hermione," Lisa greets when Hermione enters the office. "Good to see you. Have a seat."

Hermione joins the other woman on a comfy leather sofa to one side of the large office. "I didn't realise you were the head of the department."

Lisa laughs. "Many don't. It's my age. Too young, they think."

"It's impressive."

"I wish it were."

"How could it not be? You're just in your thirties and already a department head; that's incredible."

"It would be if I'd earned the position."

Hermione frowns. "What do you mean?"

Lisa holds up a finger. "Let's get something to eat and drink first, then I'll tell you. Hopefully you won't think less of me afterwards."

When Hermione has a turkey and lettuce sandwich and Lisa has a salad, Lisa tells her, "The only reason I got this job was because I was the only one in the department from an old pureblood family when the Death Eaters took over all those years ago."

Hermione lowers her sandwich to her plate. "I see."

"Please don't think I'm prejudiced. I'm far too ambitious to waste time worrying about things like blood status, but as I said, I was pureblooded and the Death Eaters wanted someone easy to control. I'm sure you remember what things were like back then."

All too well, Hermione thinks.

"I apprenticed under Marcus Fleetwood, the old department head, and when he was killed they put me in charge because I was pureblooded and young, and thus easy to manipulate... or so they thought."

"You worked against them?" Hermione asks, unable to keep the scepticism out of her voice.

"I did what I had to not to get killed," Lisa says unguiltily, "but whatever I could to retain my independence and keep running the department as Marcus had. His death was a great loss to the Ministry. They were difficult times and I was glad when they were over. In the aftermath, Minister Shacklebolt apparently decided I was fit to remain department head."

"I expect there are people who would argue with that."

"Plenty," Lisa agrees. "Most of them work for me. But I do my best and I'll be honest—I'm good at my job. I'm also ambitious enough not to look a gift horse in the mouth."

"That's an interesting story, but I don't see what it has to do with me, Miss Patterson."

"Please, call me Lisa. I just wanted you to know the truth of how I came to be here so you didn't think better of me than you should."

A tray floats beside them holding two glasses and a jug of water and Hermione pours some and takes a drink before saying, "That doesn't seem very Slytherin of you."

"Only a non-Slytherin would think so," Lisa counters, pouring herself some water. Hermione lowers her own glass.

"Unless it wasn't about that."

Lisa lifts a questioning eyebrow.

"You wanted me to realise that my own chances of reaching such a high level at your age would be unlikely."

Lisa smiles. "It's nice to see your smarts don't all come from books. Now, are you interested in time?"

Hermione blinks. "Sorry? Time?"

Lisa nods and waves a hand nonchalantly towards her desk. "Our records say you were entrusted with a Time Turner during your third year at Hogwarts. What did you think of that?"

"It was exhausting," Hermione answers honestly. "I was mad to take all those classes. But why are you asking me about that?"

"We've got an opening, Hermione, and a promise of funding if I can find someone interested in doing research on time and time travel."

"And you think I would be suitable because I used a Time Turner?"

Lisa nods. She sets aside her empty bowl, finishes her drink and returns the glass to the floating tray, and gets to her feet, going to her desk and taking a sheet of parchment from it. "I want to show you something, but I'm going to have to ask you to sign a confidentiality agreement beforehand. What I want to show you cannot be discussed with anyone outside this department."

"Is it dangerous?" Hermione asks, taking the parchment and reading it over. "This thing you want to show me?"

"Not in the least. He's very much dead."

Hermione looks up. "He?"

*PSM*

She signs the agreement, too curious not to, and follows Lisa out the office and through the only unlabelled door in the corridor to a room filled with all manner of clocks. They pass through another door that opens onto a staircase, which they go down until they reach a cold, stone walled room with harsh lights overhead and three glass coffins set around the room. A person lies in each coffin, two men and a woman, and Hermione follows Lisa to the one on the right.

"I believe you're familiar with each other."

Hermione peers inside and gasps. Lying inside, body clearly charmed against decomposition as he hasn't changed the slightest since Hermione last saw him lying on the floor of the Great Hall at Hogwarts, is the Assistant.

"What's he doing here?"

Lisa stands with her arms folded as she watches Hermione stare down at the Assistant, the younger woman pointedly avoiding letting her eyes drift away from the dead man's face to his unclothed body.

"We took him in after he died. We've kept his body here ever since. These other two are like him—time travellers that were stuck in a time loop."

Intrigued, Hermione turns towards them. The middle coffin holds a woman who looks to have been in her mid sixties when she died, from being stabbed judging by the wound over her chest. There's a label stuck to the corner of her coffin lid that reads:

_Marianne Colton Haynes._

_13/03/1799—28/12/1862_

_28/12/1862 (13)_

"What are these dates?"

"Birth and date of death," Lisa answers as she points to the top, and then to the bottom as she continues, "Day of the time loop and how many times she'd been through it. We've got a lot of information on Marianne. The reports say she turned herself in to the Ministry when it reset for the thirteenth time and she explained her situation, including details of her previous days, before committing suicide. She believed she'd broken the loop."

"Did she?"

Lisa shrugs. "Perhaps. To the best of our knowledge, hers wasn't a reset loop like Harry Snape, so even if she didn't break it her death likely put it to an end."

Hermione moves over to the third coffin, containing an elderly man named Henry Forest who'd been in a week-long time loop in the sixteenth century. "So the Ministry collects bodies of people stuck in time loops."

"Those we know of. In the past we've researched time loops and their details, but without taking information from someone who's been in one, we don't know much. A fresh perspective from someone who's interacted with a person in a time loop and who has experience with time travel themselves is what we need."

Hermione drifts back over to the Assistant's coffin, tracing her fingers over his label.

_Harry James Snape. (C. Harry Evans.)_

_31/07/1980—16/11/1997_

_05/11/1979—01/05/1998 (?)_

"What's this 'C. Harry Evans' bit mean?"

"Reference to his being a duplicate of Evans. Marianne and Henry didn't have any doubles."

Hermione looks back to the face she hasn't seen in seven years, still marked by the runes Preston Yaxley carved into his cheeks. She quite liked the Assistant as an adult, although his teenage self was horrible, and it bugs her even now that she can never know if this time is when his time loop broke.

"Are you interested?"

She turns to Lisa. "If I say no, am I going to be obliviated?"

Lisa laughs loudly. "No," she assures Hermione, gesturing to the stairs leading out the room. "The confidentiality agreement will ensure you don't talk of this to anyone. It always amuses me when I get a reminded of what the rest of the Ministry think of us Unspeakables."

Hermione's lips quirk as she thinks of the various break room stories she's heard that villainise the Department of Mysteries.

"You can take a few days to think it over," Lisa continues as they reach the top of the stairs. "Just let me know when you make the decision."

They return to Lisa's office and open it to find a man inside, lounging on the sofa with his feet resting on the arm. He sits up when they enter, swinging his legs around and greeting them with a nod but no smile, and his eyes linger on Hermione.

"Logan, this is Hermione Granger. We've just been discussing the time position. Hermione, Logan Sparrow, another Unspeakable and my fiancé."

"I remember," Logan says in a soft voice. "Year below me, Gryffindor, candidate for the position of Head Girl, friends with Harry Evans."

Hermione tries not to look surprised that he remembers her so well, but isn't sure she manages. She remembers him too, though only because he was Head Boy in her sixth year. He was a Slytherin, and that's all she knows of him.

Lisa hands her a few pages of parchment that contain the details of the position and tells her to look it over and give it a think before she decides to turn the post down. Hermione nods, thanks her, and returns upstairs.

* * *

**Elsewhere**

"What about the fact that you never go outside?"

Harry glances over at Lily. He's making pie today and kneading the dough, arms bared to show skin unmarked by either scars or the faded Dark Mark he has in reality. "What about it?"

"You don't think that it's related to the fact that you don't leave your prison cell?"

"I do leave the house," he counters. She looks at him pointedly. "I do! I left when Dad nearly killed James and got arrested."

"That was two years ago."

"So?"

"So most people leave the house on a regular basis, Harry."

He shrugs. "I could, if I wanted to. But I don't."

"Because you're punishing yourself."

"For what?" he ask incredulously.

"The murders you commit. For Draco's death, which you blame yourself for."

"Draco isn't dead. He's at Saint Mungo's, saving lives."

"It doesn't explain why you don't leave the house."

"I don't need to," he says nonchalantly. "and I don't want to. I write history essays for a living and get all my research sent to me. What else do I need to leave the house for?"

"Shopping," she answers immediately. "Flying. To visit your godfather, to make friends. To just get out and have some fresh air."

"I conjure things because it's cheaper, I can't fly because of my epilepsy, Sirius visits me, I have Draco for a friend, and I can open the window."

To make his point, he glances at the kitchen window and makes it open itself and swing wide, letting in a cold autumn breeze, then he takes up a rolling pin and begins flattening the dough for the dish.

"Draco is your lover," she argues with him. "You need other friends. I bet you don't even know the names of your neighbours, do you?"

He thumps down the rolling pin, turns to her and rattles off: "Lucius owns the house next door. Next to that is Cassandra Derrick, the one down the middle is J.D. Leziate, Emmett Moon is on the end, and that guy that likes to start fires is two up from him."

He looks at her smugly. Lily sighs, plants her arms on the breakfast bar and says, "Harry, sweetheart, you just named several of the prison inmates on the same block as you."

"Really?" he says sceptically.

"Yes. The guy who likes to start fires is called Jason Gibbons and he's a convicted arsonist."

He shakes his head, turning back to the dough and laying it in the pie dish, using magic to cut off the overhang then taking up a fork and pricking it into the dough.

"If you're not convinced, then what about the fact that all your neighbours are men living alone?"

"That's not true."

"Isn't it?"

He opens his mouth to say yes, then closes it, frowns, and eventually answers, "Well so what if they are? Not everyone has to have a partner."

"Or they're reality seeping into your mind and affecting your imagination. They're all men living alone because you're in a cell block of men living in individual cells."

He shakes his head again, setting down the fork and looking around for his tin foil and bag of rice to weigh down the dough before he sticks it in the oven. "One day you might convince me of this alternate universe thing, Mum, but today is not that day."

Lily smiles. The fact that he even jokingly says such a thing is a ray of hope for her.

* * *

It's Dobby who makes Hermione's decision about work in the end. After the Assistant's death, she summoned his house elf and told him what happened because she doubted anyone else would think to. Dobby was genuinely upset about the Assistant's death and Hermione comforted him, if a little awkwardly. Afterwards, Dobby mentioned that he had nowhere to work now—Dumbledore and the Assistant seemed to be the only people willing to pay a house elf to work—and Hermione offered to hire him. Part of her still rebels at the idea of owning a house elf, but she can't deny it's nice not to have to cook when she's actually quite terrible at it, and paying Dobby helps ease some of her guilt. So does time, as she comes to realise that he truly does enjoy working. It also gives her a direct source of information about house elf history and lifestyle, greatly aiding her work.

But she gets home a few days after receiving the offer from Lisa Patterson to find Dobby crying in the kitchen. After a lengthy conversation interspersed with sobbing fits, she learns the story of his friend Winky, a house elf dismissed by Bartemius Crouch Senior after she failed to control Crouch's son at the 1994 Quidditch World Cup. After her dismissal, Winky started working at Hogwarts, which is where Dobby met her a few years later after his own release to freedom, but she remained loyal to Crouch and her despair at being free drove her to drink—though the idea of anyone turning into an alcoholic from butterbeer, which even youngsters are allowed to drink, seems almost ridiculous to Hermione until Dobby points out a house elf's small stature—and he heard today that she's died from liver failure.

Hermione offers him a few days off to grieve, but he insists on working. Later, after she's showered and is getting ready for bed, she decides that she won't take the offer from the DMLE or the DoM. People like Winky and the treatment of them is why she started working in the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, so she can work to combat the attitudes that lead to a dismissed house elf being so distraught she drinks herself to death. She realises that it'll take a long time to change such attitudes, but she can't do it from the DMLE or the DoM and she has plenty of time in her life to work in either of those departments in the future.

*PSM*

Snape doesn't like Hogsmeade chaperone duty, especially not the first visit of the year, preferring to watch over the students who stay behind; the older students who don't go are usually the ones that want to relax in the slightly quieter castle and they tend to be unforgiving of first and second years who make too much fuss and noise, which makes supervising them all easier than trying to keep an eye on the hyped-up bunch of third years who are over-excited about their first visit and the hormone-filled older years out on dates.

But if he does this then he's exempt from duties afterwards and he intends to visit Harry that evening, so he sits at a table outside the Three Broomsticks, one hand wrapped around a coffee while he keeps an eye on the entrance to Weasley Wizard Wheezes across the street, taking care to note which students enter it. Hogwarts still has a blanket ban on all WWW products, as there has been since they first opened shop eight years ago, and Snape looks forward to catching anyone trying to sneak products into the school. He's irritated yet unsurprised that Fred and George opened a second shop in Hogsmeade; no doubt they think it's brilliant to have a store so close to the castle and to encourage students to sneak products in.

He ignores the presence that comes up behind him at first, but when it doesn't move or speak to him after a full minute he sighs irritably. "Do you want something, Professor Santiago?"

Kattalin Santiago, the Potions professor and Hufflepuff Head of House, steps around into Snape's line of sight. "I was just wondering about those annotations you've made to Gripshaw's Wolfsbane alteration."

Snape glances at the potions journal by his coffee mug. "Nothing of importance except to note that the changes are pointless; the benefits do not outweigh the risks."

"What about that?" She points to the circle and question mark he annotated when he first read through it.

"That's nothing."

Santiago frowns. "You're not very conversational, are you?"

"No," he answers curtly, wondering that it's taken her a month and a half to figure that out.

She gets a brief look of surprise then huffs, turns, and walks away. He lifts his coffee and sips it, eyes on the store across the street. He watches three known troublemakers go in and exit with no bags, but bulges in their pockets and gleams in their eyes. A giggling group of sixth year girls come out not long after and he narrows his eyes at them, hoping the reason for their giggling isn't the love potions that the Weasleys sell. He has less patience for them than he does everything else the Weasleys sell; pranks and jokes, while irritating, are at least mostly harmless. Love potions are not. At best, they make for distracted students more intent on watching the object of their infatuation; at worst, criminal behaviour that ruins lives.

About twenty minutes after Santiago leaves, Snape hears another figure approaching him. He ignores them as well, but they come around into his line of sight and he's forced to lift his glare up to a familiar face.

"Miss Granger. Shouldn't you be vying for house elves in London?"

"Believe it or not, we do get days off, professor," she responds, ignoring his snide tone. "I like coming up to Hogsmeade occasionally, but I seem to have picked a busy day. Is that Gripshaw's Wolfsbane alteration?" she adds, gesturing to the potions journal.

"Yes."

To his annoyance, she ignores his unfriendly tone and moves around the table to look down at it. Irritated he closes the journal, hiding his annotations from view.

"Oh, sorry," she says. "I should know better than to read over people's shoulders."

"Indeed."

She turns, shrugging a bag up her shoulder and walking away only to turn after four steps and come back.

"Professor, I..."

He glances at her. "If you're going to say something, Granger, spit it out."

Her expression sets. "Do you think it'd be possible to cure werewolves? With a potion, or possibly a potion-spell combination."

"Don't be ridiculous," he snaps. "That's not possible."

"But you noticed it too."

"Noticed what?"

She pulls out the extra chair at his table and sits, dumping her bag on the floor. "The ironbelly dragon scales. I meant to mention it to you at the conference, actually, but... well, you know... Anyway, Gripshaw says he included them to enhance the neutralising effect of the silver cauldron to counteract the increased toxicity of the aconite, which comes from increasing the dose of the powdered dragon claw, but shouldn't the scales and the powdered claws in combination produce a magic suppressing effect as a result of such high quantities of dragon parts? Especially combined with the opium he used to dull the transformation pain."

Snape frowns. "Theoretically, yes, but there's nothing to suppress."

"Isn't there?" she asks challengingly. He looks up, opens his mouth to answer no, then pauses. She leans forwards. "No one _knows_. There's next to no research on the actual mechanics of werewolves and how they work. Obviously it's magic connected to the moon, but how? They always transform, even if the moonlight doesn't touch them, correct? Then it's not like various plants that only bloom in moonlight," she continues when he nods. "Which means it's about the position of the moon relative to the earth, interacting in some way with... I don't know. Something in the blood, like a disease? Or a genetic mutation? If someone did some actual research it could be possible to find a cure, or maybe even just a way to prevent the change occurring on a monthly basis, like the Wolfsbane only better."

"Are you planning to take up this research? Or are you telling me all this because you think I should? Might I point out that I have a job, a time-consuming one at that."

"For a year, you told me. Are you going back to work at Slug and Jiggers next summer? Excuse me for saying so, but it seems to me you'd be more suited to a research position. I expect the Ministry would fund something like this and it would be far more suited to your level of skill than working behind a shop counter."

"If you are so eager for this, why not take on the research yourself?"

"My potions skills are nowhere near as good as yours—to be honest, I don't think I'm as good now as you were at seventeen—and—"

"How on earth would you know my skills at seventeen?" he interrupts. "Not that I doubt it."

"Modest much?" she teases, but answers, "Harry found your old Potions textbook back in our sixth year, with all those alterations and spells in it. I admit I was sceptical at first even though the changes appeared to improve the potions we brewed, but then he told me it was yours."

Snape raises an eyebrow. "So you doubted the reliability of evidence before your eyes, but believed in the words of a teenager?"

"Well considering the last book Harry found that had writing in it possessed him, yes. After all, the only name in it was 'Half-Blood Prince', which, without knowing Prince was a surname, did suggest certain delusions of grandeur and a desire for a better station in life. For all we knew, the supposed improvements could have been creating subtle poisons or Merlin only knew what. In any case, it shows your skills were good enough even at that age that if anyone could come up with a cure you could. Not to mention you have a personal interest in the outcome."

"As you've already pointed out, not enough is known about the nature of werewolves to begin working on any kind of potion, so my skill is irrelevant."

"Miss Granger! What a surprise to see you here."

Hermione looks around with a smile and Snape picks up his forgotten coffee, drawing his wand to cast a Reheating Spell before drinking it.

"Hello, Professor McGonagall. It's good to see you."

"You're looking very well, my dear. Ah... did you come to see Severus?"

Snape looks up at McGonagall with a raised eyebrow, silently asking why she thinks Hermione would ever come to see him.

"No, I just came to visit the village and we ended up talking. I'm trying to convince him he should find a cure for werewolves."

McGonagall glances between them, surprised. "I didn't think such a thing was possible."

"It's not," Snape replies shortly and drains the last of his coffee then gets to his feet.

"It is with the right research," Hermione insists.

"Then enjoy such research. I have other things to do," he says, and picks up the journal before sweeping off with his robes flapping. Both women watch him go.

"He hasn't changed much, has he?" Hermione remarks.

"Surprisingly little, considering," McGonagall agrees, then looks down at her. "Will you join me for a drink? I'd like to hear how your life is going."

Hermione smiles. "I'd be glad to, Professor."

*PSM*

Enfys drags zir chair around zir desk and over to Hermione's, rests zir arms on the desk and zir chin on zir arms, and blows Hermione's hair.

"Go 'way," is the muffled response from where Hermione's face is buried in her own arms.

"What's the matter, darling?"

Zie jumps when Hermione sits up abruptly, hair frizzing wildly about her, eyes glaring. "Severus bloody Snape."

"Ah, your pet werewolf. What's the problem now?"

Hermione stares at zir. "You—pet—what? My pet werewolf? Enfys, do you have any idea how ridiculous that whole phrase is? No one keeps werewolves as pets. No one sane anyway, not to mention it'd be illegal, immoral, and unethical, and in any case he's not _mine_."

Enfys waves a dismissive hand. "What about him? I thought you decided he was unimportant and you weren't going to think about him."

She slumps, chair squeaking slightly as she leans back in it. "I wasn't, but I went to Hogsmeade on Saturday and sort of bumped into him."

"By 'sort of bumped into him' you mean...?"

"I mean I sat at a table outside the Three Broomsticks for twenty minutes and discussed the potential for a werewolf cure. It's completely _ridiculous_. I shouldn't be attracted to him, but he's clearly mellowed over time. You wouldn't tell at first, but he has. He's still snarky, but there's no real cruelty in his words anymore. And you know, he never actually told me to leave. He was fine talking about it until Professor McGonagall arrived, even if he did pretend he wasn't interested in the topic. Talking about the right topics and I think he might be an interesting and engaging conversationalist, and it's outrageous and I shouldn't be attracted to him, damnit!"

Enfys plants zir elbows on the desk and zir chin in zir hands. "You need to go on a date."

"With Snape?"

"With someone, but Snape is probably your best choice, yes. You need to see what he's like when you spend an extended period of time with him," zie explains when Hermione looks at zir sceptically. "Go on a date and if you make good conversation and still enjoy his company afterwards, go on another. No harm done."

"Assuming he even says yes."

"There is that. The other option of course is to find another bloke to date and get your mind off Snape."

"You really think I should go on a date with Snape?"

Enfys shrugs. "You're the one that's attracted to him. And, to be honest, I don't know much about the guy. I met him that once outside the Werewolf Registry Office for less than a minute; everything else I know about him has come from you, and if you're attracted to him he can't be that terrible, can he? Come on, what can you lose from asking him out?"

"My dignity? He'll probably laugh in my face. "

"In which case you'll know he's not worth it and you can call me over to eat ice cream with you and watch Buffy."

"You complain about Buffy being unrealistic and problematic."

"Still entertaining and sporting a cast of very hot women. So are you going to do it?"

Hermione sighs. "Yes, if it'll help me figure this out. But I swear, Enfys, if this just confuses my emotions even more I'll be dumping ice cream on your head."

*PSM*

For the first time, Snape's awake through his transformation back to human. It hurts just as much as the initial transformation which makes him marvel that he managed to sleep through it before, and afterwards he doesn't move until James comes over and holds out his robes. He dresses silently, wincing as the movements pull on various new injuries, then follows James over to the two other figures in the Forbidden Forest with them—a naked, middle-aged woman with greying hair and numerous injuries, including a large gouge across her torso and two broken legs, and the unconscious body of a thirty-something man.

"What... are you... going to do... to me?" she asks pantingly, teeth grit in pain, breathing harsh and shallow. She's one of five werewolves that came to the forest the night before, the pack that wrote to Snape after the previous full moon, but there was no running. Snape hadn't even intended to spend the night in the forest—whatever his wolven body said, he had no interest in interacting in any capacity with other werewolves—but McGonagall, when she saw the letter, insisted on it. She wanted him to find out how many wolves there were and what danger they presented to the school. James was equally encouraging, if for different reasons, saying Snape might enjoy being able to run with others of his kind and learn to start accepting what he was. Snape grumbled that he did accept it; James gave him a knowing look and said nothing.

But Snape's human unwillingness to interact with other wolves was somewhat over-ruled by his wolven body when the moon rose, and when he heard other wolves howling he answered and ran to find them, intent on chasing away the interlopers on his territory. The fight had been bloody and ended when Prongs had knocked out the alpha with a ferocious blow to the head with one back hoof, very nearly killing him, and Snape injured the woman enough that she couldn't flee with the other three, who ran off with injuries of their own after their alpha was taken down.

"We'll take you back to Hogwarts," James answers the woman, removing his cloak and handing it to her to cover herself, "then call the Aurors, who'll arrest you for trespassing and not being caged or on Wolfsbane during the full moon."

"I took Wolfsbane."

"No, you didn't. I've run with werewolves on it and off it; I know the signs."

"I took it!" she insists. James just shrugs.

"A blood test will determine that."

He uses the _Mobilicorpus_ spell to pick her off the floor and start levitating her through the forest and Snape does the same with the unconscious male, the group heading back towards the school in silence. Snape follows James, relying on him to know the way out, and lets his mind focus on the realisation he had that night. Hermione's right. There is, with the correct research, the very slightest possibility that a cure could be found for werewolves, or perhaps a variant of Wolfsbane that, taken each month, suppressed the physical transformation, and he has a vested interest in finding one. He doesn't want to be a werewolf. James is right that he hasn't accepted it—he's resigned to it and has been since the first transformation, because he's not idiot enough to delude himself, but he's not accepted it—and he doubts he ever will. He's violently hated werewolves for over twenty years; being one himself isn't going to suddenly transmute that hate into understanding and compassion.

But he also knows a cure, or suppressant, isn't going to be found soon and easily. He doesn't doubt Hermione is right that there's next to no research on werewolf mechanics—why would there be? Werewolves are monsters and the only thing people want to know about monsters is how to kill them—and without knowing precisely how werewolves work he can't begin to construct a cure.

There's another problem, he realises as he looks at James' back. The contract he signed to keep from going to prison for the assault on James two years ago stipulated he got work that isn't research and he's not sure how long that clause lasts. James clearly has a say on the clause that keeps Snape from assaulting him, as he demonstrated that summer by not having Snape arrested after his attack in July, so does the same go for Snape taking up another research position? Perhaps if it's in a more official capacity it would be acceptable; his struggle to create a cure for Harry's epilepsy was a private project done in desperation and guilt and with little actual proper research. Of course, James could easily say the desire to find a cure is done in desperation and self-loathing, and he wouldn't be entirely wrong, but this time he would do it properly. He would research werewolves, he would find out what made them work, he would learn the biology he needs to know, and he'd devise testable theories from that research.

And he has six months to start. He'll have to start searching for new work by May at the latest, in anticipation of losing the Defence post, and he has enough time to spare that he hopes to at least do enough research to show he's serious about this and that taking on full time research would not drive him back to drink. He'll convince Oliver of it as well, because Oliver's word will likely be crucial to any decisions regarding Snape's career, no matter who makes them.

Decision made, he nods to himself and follows James into the castle through a secret passage that'll take them to the second floor and the hospital wing without bumping into any students who'll ask questions about their professors floating along injured naked people.


	7. Autumn, Part 3

**Autumn, Part 3**

Snape knows the outcome of the All Saints Day Ball the moment James steps through the door because of his pale face, wide eyes, lips pressed tightly together, and hands dangling limply at his sides.

"My sympathies."

James looks at him, unblinking. "What?"

"For your loss."

"What loss?"

Snape frowns. "You didn't lose the competition?"

"We won. First place."

"Then why do you look like someone kicked your puppy?"

James opens his mouth and nothing comes out. He closes it, licks his lips, opens it again, and says in a hoarse whisper, "I kissed Narcissa."

Snape stares.

"I don't know what I was thinking. We were outside the hall, getting ready to leave, and talking about what to do with the trophy and I was feeling giddy and pleased and she looked pleased and beautiful and then I kissed her."

Snape forces down his complete shock and clears his throat. "This is the part where I'm supposed to ask if she kissed back, isn't it?"

"Severus, I _kissed Narcissa Black_. Please be serious."

"I am! What am I supposed to say? Good on you... go get her? I'm not the kind of person people talk to when they've just kissed someone, James. I have no experience in such situations." He pauses, then hesitantly asks, "Uh... did she... kiss back?"

"No. I mean, I stopped almost immediately so I suppose she didn't have time if she'd wanted to."

"What did she say?"

James' expression turns sheepish. "I Disapparated. I wasn't sure she wouldn't hex me so thought it best just to leave. Maybe I shouldn't have."

"From what I understand, abandoning a woman after kissing her isn't good form."

"I'm an idiot," James moans, slouching over to the sofa and throwing himself onto it, flinging one arm over his face. "She'll probably hex me on Friday. Twice. Once for doing it, once for running off. I probably shouldn't go. In fact maybe I should just never leave the castle again. I'm _mad_."

Snape watches him, frowning. "Do you like her?" he asks, then shakes his head. "No, nevermind. I sound like a gossiping twelve year old and you have a therapist. Congratulations on the competition, I hope you don't get hexed, good night."

"Night," James replies morosely, dropping his arm to watch Snape get up and head to his bedroom, a book tucked under his arm. A minute later, James rises and heads to his own room, figuring he might as well sleep himself, but he's halfway through undressing when he changes his mind. He redresses, grabs a cloak, and leaves, hurrying through the castle and across the grounds to the boundaries of the school, and then Apparating.

He reappears at Grimmauld Place and only when he's knocked on the door of number twelve does he second guess himself, but by then it's too late and Pippin is answering the door.

"Uh... is Nar- Ms Black in?"

"Yes, Mister Potter sir, she—"

"I'm here," Narcissa's voice interrupts, and James looks down the hall to the drawing room door as she steps out of it. "Come in, Mr Potter."

He does so and nervously moves down to the drawing room, stepping inside after her and then pausing by the door as she moves further into the room. She has a glass of amber liquid in hand and drinks before turning to face him with a waiting expression. He resists the urge to wring his hands.

"I wanted to apologise."

"For?"

"For what I did at the ball. It was inappropriate. I also apologise for running away afterwards."

She sips at her drink. "I admit I was surprised. I'd been led to believe Gryffindors had more courage."

James winces, but at least she hasn't hexed him. Or slapped him.

"Why did you kiss me?"

James tenses. He can recognise a loaded question when he hears one; the wrong answer to that could get him hexed, but he's not entirely sure what the right answer is. So he settles for the truth.

"Because I was happy and you looked beautiful."

For an instant she looks startled and he worries she will hex him, but then her expression softens. "Thank you," she says, smiling gently. He returns it, relaxing. She glances away and lifts her glass, finishing the drink before placing it down on a small side table, and then looking at him again. "I accept your apology. I trust the issue is behind us and we will be able to continue in our dance classes without any tension between us."

He nods. "Yes. Thank you. That's... I'll see you on Friday then."

"Of course. Good night, Mr Potter."

"Good night, Ms Black."

*PSM*

Snape kneels on his office floor and stares at the head in his fireplace. He's glad he's not in the quarters he shares with James, because this isn't the sort of thing he wants an audience for, but on the other hand he's not entirely sure he hasn't gone mad and James would be able to tell him.

"Can you repeat that?" he asks. "I'm not sure I heard it correctly."

"I asked if you would come on a dinner date with me," Hermione says, and Snape's slightly distressed to hear her sound more confident the second time, like catching him off guard fortifies her nerves. He closes his eyes for a moment, fortifying his own, then opens them and glares.

"You have poor taste in humour, Granger."

Instead of looking embarrassed, or contrite, or even smug at pranking him, she looks vaguely annoyed. "This isn't a joke."

"Then what do you mean by it?"

"It's pretty straight forward. I would like to have dinner with you."

"With me."

"That is what I said. Three times now."

"Why?"

"Because I think there's a decent man underneath the grouchy exterior and I want to see if I can find him. So yes or no?"

He hesitates, then, "Yes."

Hermione blinks. "What?"

He resists the urge to smirk, knowing she would take it to mean he's trying to prank her now. He's certainly tempted, but he thinks indulging her and showing her how ridiculous it is to think him in any way decent or dateable is better than simply pranking her. "I said yes, Granger."

She narrows her gaze, clearly suspicious. "You mean that? You're not tricking me? You're not going to stand me up?"

"Anyone would think you expected me to say no."

"Well of course I did. I hoped for a yes, but I'm not hopelessly optimistic and I didn't really expect one, but I had to take the chance and ask. You really mean it?"

He draws his wand and holds it flat on his palm before him. "I promise on my magic that I will attend a date with Hermione Granger, at the time and place of her choosing."

Her mouth drops open at that, even though such a promise is only showy and about as binding as 'cross my heart and hope to die', but she quickly closes it and then beams at him, catching him off guard with the obvious joy. "I'll owl you with a date and time. Is there any days you definitely can't do? Full moon aside, I mean?"

"I'm free most days from half past four onwards."

"Great. Have a nice evening," she finishes, smiles at him once more, and disappears. He snorts, getting up and returning to his desk and the marking waiting for him. A date. Him. With Hermione Granger. It's ridiculous. But he knows the stubbornness of Gryffindors. She would have persisted and persisted; far easier to indulge her once and make her realise for herself how foolish she's being. Once the evening is up, they'll go their separate ways and never see each other again. She'll probably find some other man her own age, get married, and live a delightfully dull and normal life, while he spends the rest of his life alone and miserable, as has been predicted by numerous people since he was a teenager. Or almost alone, he amends, thinking of James.

And if it turns out the date is just a prank, as he half suspects, then he'll find a way to take revenge and make her regret ever trying to pull one over on him.

*PSM*

"Ms Black!"

Narcissa pauses and turns, watching James jog up to her just as she's leaving the dance hall. His face is flushed and she braces herself to hear that he no longer wishes to be her partner. He hardly spoke all evening and she can only assume it's because of the kiss a week earlier, despite their discussion afterwards.

"Ms Black, I, uh... I was wondering if maybe you'd like to have dinner with me."

She doesn't expect _that_ and can't keep the surprise from showing on her face, but she quickly schools it and frowns slightly.

"Mr Potter, I... will you walk with me, please?"

"Alright." There's wariness in his voice that she ignores and he follows her a short distance from the hall, taking them out of hearing range of the other dancers who are leaving or standing around chatting before they go. When they're a safe distance, she stops and turns to him.

"Why are you asking me this?"

"The night after the competition I realised that I didn't just kiss you because of adrenaline and all the emotions from the dance, but because I like you, and I'd like to cook you dinner. I'm a really good cook," he adds, clearly hoping it will convince her.

"Mr Potter—"

"James, please."

She frowns. "Mr Potter," she repeats, and his expression falters and he edges back a step. She doesn't stop him. "Forgive me, but I must ask this: is it possible that these feelings you have are in any way influenced by what Lucius did to you?"

His mouth drops and his eyes widen slightly, telling her he hadn't even considered the possibility, but she's grateful that he doesn't immediately deny it. She would be suspicious if he did, but he closes his mouth and hunches his shoulders, glancing away and furrowing his brow in thought. She waits silently, letting him think. She was truly touched by him calling her beautiful the night of the competition—she knows her age is beginning to show, earlier than she ever wanted and sped on by grief over Draco's death, and to hear an honest compliment made her feel good about herself—but that was one thing; it's quite another for him to express an interest in courting her when he spent a good portion of his life an unwilling slave to her ex-husband. Although she's never considered it before, she wouldn't object to a date with him, but not if his desire for her comes only from some effect of Lucius' abuse.

"No," he answers eventually, looking back at her. He must see some doubt in her face because he adds, "I've been Bound to Severus for seven years; any magical hold Lucius had on me is gone. As for any lingering psychological feelings... Lucius always impressed upon me that you were someone I should regard in the same way I would a queen—high, mighty, way above my station. I was to show the utmost respect in my words and actions and obey you as I would him. If there was any of his... conditioning... left over, I wouldn't be asking you to dinner."

"And doing so isn't simply a desire to spit in his face?"

She knows she's offended him with her words, but doesn't apologise or retract them. There's too much history for her to not question this.

"No. If I wanted to spit in Lucius' face, I'd visit Azkaban and do it literally. I've seen a therapist at least once a month since Voldemort fell, Ms Black, and I've healed and moved on from what Lucius did to me. I promise you, the only reason I want to make dinner for you is because you're a beautiful woman I enjoy spending time with."

She searches his face, looking for any sign that he's lying but finding none, and eventually nods. "Very well," she says, and he grins.

"How about next Wednesday?"

"Wednesday would be fine. At Grimmauld Place? I can't imagine the Hogwarts house elves would appreciate you impinging on their kitchen."

He laughs. "No, probably not. I was going to say Black Stag House—my home, in Coleford—but Grimmauld Place is fine."

"I would prefer that," she tells him, which he accepts with a nod. "I will see you then."

"Yup. Oh, you're not allergic to anything, are you?"

"No, but I cannot abide turnips and I only eat white meat."

"Not a problem. Good night then. I look forward to Wednesday."

She smiles. "Good night... James."

*PSM*

At five to six on the 6th of November, Snape Apparates into a small copse of trees in the courtyard of a modern block of flats in Oxford. Although the building is Muggle built and owned—there is only one wizard equivalent in England, set in London and generally occupied by unmarried purebloods—Hermione assured him this Apparition point was set up with mild Muggle repellent spells and Perception Filter Jinxes, which make people acknowledge the trees are there without actually paying attention, allowing wizards to Apparate in unnoticed.

He stands in the copse for a few minutes after appearing, half tempted to leave again. He probably would if it weren't for the promise he made. Two years ago a promise like that wouldn't have kept him in place, but after getting sober he knew he had to change the kind of person he was, to improve himself. He would never be perfect—his actions after being bit were evidence enough of that—and he never wants to be, either, but he knows he can be a better person than he was.

Of course, he thinks as he steps out of the trees and towards the building, if he really improved as a person he probably would have said no to Hermione instead of saying yes just to show that he's a bastard.

Hermione lives on the seventh floor and he takes the lift; he gets enough of stairs at Hogwarts. It opens at the end of a corridor and he walks down it slowly, checking the numbers on the doors. A teenage girl comes out of 702 as he goes and eyes his cloak with some disdain as they pass one another. He glares and she drops her eyes to the mobile phone in her hands, making him smirk. She really has no right looking at his cloak like that when she's wearing a bright yellow hooded sweatshirt with large eyes drawn on the hood and floppy ears. He isn't even wearing robes for her to look at him weirdly about; Hermione said they're going to a Muggle restaurant so he dug out the trousers, grey shirt, and black vest that constituted the only Muggle outfit he owns. He does have a jacket to go with it, but that seemed a little too formal and he doesn't want to give the impression he's actually putting effort into it, so he left that and relied on his charmed cloak to keep him warm.

He hesitates only briefly outside of 707 before knocking and gets an answer almost immediately, though not from Hermione. He's not sure what's more surprising—that Hermione has a house elf, that that house elf used to belong to the Malfoys, or that the elf is wearing rugby uniform.

"Miss Hermione is in the bathroom. Mister Snape is waiting here," Dobby says after letting Snape in then he goes to the foot stool sat in front of the TV, which is showing a rugby game. One of the teams is wearing uniform that matches Dobby's.

"Shouldn't you be working?" Snape asks with a sneer.

"Dobby is allowed time off to watch the rugby," the elf replies without looking away from the TV. "Miss Hermione is letting Dobby watch all Gloucester—" He breaks off to cheer as one team scores, presumably Gloucester. Snape turns away to look around the sitting room. He's hardly an expert on house elves—most of his interaction with them involved calling for cups of coffee late at night—but Lucius had always said Dobby was weird.

Other than Dobby, there's no sign that the flat belongs to a witch. All the pictures are motionless, there's the TV between two bookcases, and there isn't even a _Daily Prophet_ lying on the coffee table, though there is a copy of _The Times_. There's no fireplace, making him wonder if it's in another room or if she used someone else's when she called to ask him out. The thought makes a cold shiver run down his spine; how many other people know about this date? He hasn't told anyone; the last thing he needs is the inevitable teasing and mocking that would come if anyone finds out he's going on a date. He especially wants to keep the information from reaching McGonagall's ears. She would probably get the wrong idea and think he's preying on one of her favourite ex-students. He tries not to think about the age difference between them as it is.

He is slightly comforted when he looks at a photo on the wall of Hermione and a man and woman who must be her parents. They're clearly related to her and older than he is, but aren't the elderly figures from another picture that Snape thinks might be Hermione's grandparents. It's good to know that although he is old enough to be her father, he's younger than her actual father.

He hears a door further in the flat open and close and turns to see Hermione come down the small hall into the sitting room. She's wearing a sleeveless, knee length blue dress and low-heeled shoes and she smiles when she sees him.

"Hello, Severus."

"Hermione," he greets. It's an effort not to call her Miss Granger, though he has to admit that the desire is more from his preference for the distance such formalities provide rather than because he still sees her as a student. There are several ex-students he met while working at Slug & Jiggers who were still childish and immature and made him want to assign detention, but Hermione's too grown up from the girl he'd taught and even the person he spent several weeks house sharing with during the war.

"You look very nice," he adds, feeling awkward as he does. He's really not used to giving compliments and he does so mostly because he knows he's supposed to, although that doesn't make it untrue. He isn't going to lie about such a thing when he's trying to avoid encouraging her in whatever reason she had for asking him out, but he isn't going to be purposely rude either.

She thanks him and goes to the coat stand in the corner nearest the front door, shrugging one on then picking up a set of keys and a purse from a small dish on the sideboard and pocketing both. "Shall we go?"

He nods and follows her out. The door must have an automatic lock because she doesn't lock it behind them. When they reach the lift and she presses the call button, he clears his throat to break the awkward silence.

"Are we walking?"

"No, we'll take my car." She must notice something on his face because she adds, "I'm a good driver. I passed the test my first time and had my license for three years."

He decides not to tell her his reluctance is not because of his doubt in her skills, but because he's seen the results of a multi-car motorway pile-up after Death Eaters hexed several vehicles in a display of 'magical might over Muggle mechanics'. Not that he expects such a thing to happen when most of the Death Eaters are dead or in Azkaban, but the exploding mess of mangled metal is an image that stuck with him.

"I don't see why you would own a car when you can Apparate," he says instead. "It seems rather redundant."

"Apparating isn't always an option," she points out. "I'm terrible on brooms and I've never really like floo travel either, to be honest."

"It's very undignified," he agrees, stepping into the lift as it reaches their floor.

"Exactly. And I quite enjoy driving, plus it makes my parents happy to see me using Muggle things. They bought me my car for my twenty-first birthday."

"You parents should accept you for who you are. They cannot change you being a witch."

"Oh, they do. They struggled at first, of course, when Professor Sprout first came and told us about magic, but they've accepted it. I think it just makes them feel better to know I'm not giving up my Muggle heritage," she explains as the lift reaches an underground parking garage.

"That hardly seems a concern," he remarks. "Even your house elf appears taken with Muggle culture."

Hermione laughs. "That's my dad's fault, that is. He got Dobby into Rugby. He was always a bit disappointed that I never liked sports, but you should see the pair of them watching the Six Nations. It's like being at a Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch match all over again."

"Six Nations?"

"Annual Rugby championships between England, Ireland, Wales, Scotland, France, and Italy."

"Is that what you're trying to encourage in house elves, to get hooked on Muggle sports?"

Hermione pauses in front of a red soft-top convertible and turns to face him, frowning slightly. "I try to encourage house elves to have the opportunity to live their lives with freedom, instead of being worked to the bone as slaves and abused. I'm trying to get them the equal rights they deserve. I want _everyone_ to have equal rights—Muggleborns, house elves, werewolves," she says pointedly. He turns away.

"Which is your car?"

"This one." She takes out her keys and points them at the convertible. It beeps and the indicators flash twice then she goes to driver's door and opens it. When she notices Snape waiting by the passenger door, she looks over the roof at him.

"If you're that concerned by my skills we can always call a taxi."

"I'm merely waiting for you to unlock the door."

She frowns. "It is unlocked. Should be, at least, unless it's broken."

He pulls the handle and the door opens. Hermione nods and climbs into her own seat. Snape gets in beside her. "Is it safe to leave your car unlocked all the time?"

"I don't. Remote control unlocking," she explains, jingling the keys. He doesn't respond, focusing on buckling his seat belt instead. He hates revealing ignorance, even though it's understandable he wouldn't know Muggle technology had progressed to remote unlocking. The last time he'd been in a car was before he started at Hogwarts and each door had to be individually unlocked.

Noise fills the vehicle when Hermione starts the engine and Snape's gaze slides to the radio on the central dashboard. He recognises the song, although he can't recall either a name or band; he just has a sudden memory of sitting in Spinner's End while his father's record player filled the house with noise. Music in Spinner's End was always a good thing; it mellowed his father and his parents never argued while there was something playing.

"I can turn that off if you like."

"No," he responds without even thinking. "I don't mind."

She nods, puts the car in gear, and pulls out, saying nothing more as she takes them out of the garage and onto the road.

*PSM*

"Good afternoon, Severus. How are you today?"

Snape sweeps into the outpatient room and drops into his usual chair, crossing one leg over the other and resting his hands along the arms of the chair. "I went on a... date," he tells Oliver.

"Really? With whom?"

"A woman."

"Did you enjoy it?"

Snape looks away, mouth tight, fingers drumming on the chair arms. "Yes."

"You sound puzzled."

"I'm not puzzled, I'm annoyed."

"You're annoyed that you enjoyed going on a date?"

"Yes," he snaps. "And then she asked me on another and... kissed my cheek."

"Severus... when a date goes well, it's generally assumed that a second one would be accepted. Why does it bother you?"

"Because it's a trick!"

Oliver leans back in his chair. "I see. I take it she asked you out. Did you assume it was a trick then?" he asks when Snape nods.

"Of course."

"But you said yes anyway."

"Only to prove to her that she shouldn't play pranks on me."

"Then you didn't agree to a second date."

Snape says nothing. Oliver raises his eyebrows. "You did agree."

"If she is so determined to make a fool of me, I will impose my presence on her. She clearly has time to waste and I can glean some enjoyment from knowing her insistence on tricking me is paid for by having to put up with me."

"And if it isn't a trick? You don't think someone could be genuinely attracted to you?"

Snape snorts. "I hadn't realised you were blind."

"Attraction isn't always about appearance, and you shouldn't be so harsh on yourself."

"If you're suggesting she's attracted to my personality then you're stupid as well as blind."

"Do you actually have any evidence that the date was a trick, other than you own beliefs?"

"That's all the evidence I need. No one has ever asked me on a genuine date and no one ever will, because I am not the kind of person people are attracted to. It's a simple fact. When this prank comes to a head I will be ready and when it's over I will fashion my own revenge."

"What sort of revenge?" Oliver asks sharply.

"Nothing illegal or permanently damaging. Merely embarrassing, as is no doubt her intention."

Oliver doesn't look reassured, but he lets the issue drop. "Tell me what you did. On the date, I mean."

"We had dinner."

Oliver waits, but Snape is no more forthcoming. "I assume you talked. What about?"

"Potions, magical theory, music."

"But not about yourselves? How much does she know about you?"

Snape looks away again as he answers that. "She knows about the Death Eater spying, my relationship with Harry, James, my... disease." He pauses, taps his fingers on the arm of the chair, then adds, "I think she may have guessed about the drinking when I took water with my meal, but didn't say anything. I'm sure she'll bring it up when all this comes to an end."

"And how much do you know about her?"

"Enough."

"How much is enough?"

Snape sighs irritably. "She works in the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, she prefers cars to all other methods of travel, and she's Muggleborn."

"Nothing nearly as personal as what she knows about you."

Snape shoots him a sidelong glance. "I know she had an abortion at eighteen, I know who the father was and that he strongly objected to the abortion, and I know they've never recovered their friendship since then."

"Oh," Oliver says. "I see. Uh... tell me about your dating history. You've never mentioned any kind of romantic partners aside from Lily."

"That's because there are none."

"None at all? You've never been on a date with anyone before now?"

Snape scowls. "One, when I was sixteen, but that was a prank."

Oliver latches onto that. "Do you not think you're assuming the worst about this date because of that one prank?"

"No," Snape answers curtly. "They're exactly the same—a reasonably attractive, but not stunning, woman asks me out when she's previously shown no interest in me, pretends to enjoy herself, then reveals it to be a prank in front of a wide audience."

"Except this woman didn't."

"Yet."

"I think you're being too negative, Severus. You said the woman kissed you at the end of the night; if she finds you as unattractive as you seem to think she does, surely she wouldn't have done that. Or do you mean to tell me that's part of the prank too? A way to further make you think it's real?"

"Yes."

Oliver shakes his head. "I think you're wrong, Severus, but let's move on to something else. How is your werewolf research going?"

* * *

**Elsewhere**

Draco in the living room when Lily arrives. She greets him a little stiffly, not pleased to see him; even ignoring the pureblood ideals he was raised with, but which he never mentions around her, she dislikes him, primarily because he actively encourages Harry to believe that this place is reality and to think Lily is the delusional one. She knows why—Draco doesn't want to lose Harry and return to heaven anymore than Harry wants to lose Draco and return to earth, but it is extremely irritating. She prefers Sirius and Lupin's lack of interference, despite both of them having reason to want to stay in Elsewhere.

"Mrs Potter?"

Lily pauses on her way to the kitchen and turns back, looking at Draco patiently. She may not like him, but Harry loves him, so she'll do her best to get on with him despite their differences of opinion.

"Don't try to convince him today," Draco says. "It's the anniversary of my death; I deserve not to lose him today of all days."

"Today's the day you should have lost him," she replies gently. "He's more likely to listen to me better today; reality already pushes in harder on him."

"Please," he demands.

"What are you two talking about in there?" Harry calls from the kitchen.

"Nothing," Draco calls back then says to Lily, "Don't. Please."

"Draco, I want Harry to be sane. Believe it or not, I want you to deal with your death as well, because you're coping with it almost as badly as he is. You've died," she says not unkindly. "You both need to accept that."

"Just because I'm dead doesn't mean I have to lose him," he hisses. "Why can't you just let us be happy?"

He stalks into the kitchen without giving her time to answer. She follows more sedately, heading straight for her usual seat at the breakfast bar, where a cup of tea already waits for her. She does want Harry, and even Draco, to be happy, but she also wants her son to be sane and she doesn't believe Harry's happiness is tied exclusively to Draco's presence in his life.

*PSM*

Sirius and Lupin live in a cottage in Hogsmeade. Lupin works as Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts, with Sirius coming in to cover his lessons during the full moon, and living in the village rather than the castle is preferable—especially for the imaginary Headmistress McGonagall who doesn't want Sirius Black living in her castle causing mischief for the three out of every four weeks when he doesn't teach.

It's evening of the sixteenth of November when Lily knocks on their door. They're both in for the night and Sirius answers, opening his mouth to greet her but only getting out a "He-" before she storms past him, mouth turned into a scowl as she stomps down the short hall to their sitting room, where Lupin has a cup of tea and a pile of essays to mark, and flops into one of their armchairs to declare angrily, "That boy is infuriating!"

"Draco or Harry?" Lupin inquires politely.

"Both of them!"

Sirius joins Lupin, slinging one arm along the back of the sofa as he looks at Lily with faint amusement. "I'm not sure you can call them boys when Harry's older than you were when you died."

Lily glowers at him and Lupin elbows him in the ribs then asks Lily, "What have they done?"

Lily sighs, turning in the armchair to sling her legs over one arm. "The usual. I try to convince Harry this is all in his head, and Draco convinces him _I'm_ the crazy one."

"It's a reasonable stance," he replies and it's his turn to receive a glare from Lily. He ignores it, sipping his tea and scribbling a comment on the essay he's marking.

"Draco actually suggested Harry have me sectioned."

Sirius takes his arm from the sofa and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Seriously? That's taking things a bit far, even for Draco."

"I think he's worried I'm starting to get through to Harry," Lily says. "He doesn't argue with me so much anymore. He seems to actually think about what I say and that scares Draco."

Next to Sirius, Lupin doesn't look up but his hand is still and he's had enough time to reach the end of the essay. Sirius glances at him, knowing his lover objects to Lily's actions almost as much as Draco does and has confessed to Sirius that on more than one occasion he's been tempted to openly side with Draco against Lily. Sirius doesn't doubt it would be influencing; for all that Lily is Harry's mother, she's been dead most of his life no matter what Harry currently believes and Lupin's word is likely to convince him more strongly than Lily's.

"What scares me is that Harry seemed to actually consider the possibility of sectioning me and..." She looks at Sirius with concern as she admits, "I think he could, if he wanted, trap me here."

"Harry wouldn't do that," Sirius assures her. "You're his mum. He loves you. He won't lock you in a psych ward, no matter what my prat of a cousin says."

"I hope not."

He shoots her an encouraging grin. "He won't. Don't worry about it, Lils. How long can you stay? Fancy a trip to the Three Broomsticks?"

She shrugs. "Sure, I've still got a couple of hours."

"Excellent. Coming, Moony?"

"I have essays to mark."

"One drink, Moony. The essays will still be here when you get back."

"Sirius—"

"Come on, Remus," Lily encourages, getting to her feet. "The world won't end if you don't mark them right now."

He looks between their set faces, sighs, downs the last of his tea, and puts the essay on top of the pile on the coffee table.

"One drink," he agrees and Sirius grins.

* * *

Snape watches over his coffee mug as James saunters into the staff room, humming cheerfully as he makes his way over and sits down in the chair nearest Snape.

"You're cheerful."

"Good reason to be. My second date on Sunday."

"That's four days away."

James shrugs. Snape looks down at his coffee. His painfully aware of those four days—his own second date is on Sunday as well, deliberately chosen to coincide with James' so Snape doesn't have to explain where he's going. He also chose Sunday because of its proximity to the full moon, which is Friday night, but either Hermione hasn't noticed, doesn't care, or is toughing it out anyway.

"Date?" repeats Professor Santiago, spinning around in her own chair. "With who? Anyone we know?"

James grins. "Just a woman at my dance classes."

"Hang on," says Ellowyn Buckle, a young man apprenticing under Madam Pomfrey, "I thought you were gay. Aren't you and Snape... you know?"

Snape chokes on his coffee. James, annoyingly, looks bemused. "No, we're not."

"But—" Ellowyn starts, then notices Snape glaring at him. "I need to get back to the Hospital Wing," he mutters hurriedly and leaves. The door's just swung shut when it opens again to admit McGonagall.

"Severus, what did you do to Ellowyn?"

"I didn't do anything, Minerva."

"Then why did he run out looking terrified?"

Snape shrugs and drinks his coffee. McGonagall tuts and glances over the rest of the room's occupants, seeing everyone except the just left Ellowyn. "Right, let's get started. This meeting is to discuss the Christmas Dance. We—sit back down, Severus. You will be taking part, I don't care how much you complain about it."

"Really?" he drawls. "Are you planning to spike the food with a hallucinogenic then? I don't see how else you plan to explain a werewolf at the Christmas Dance, or did you forget the full moon is that night?"

To his irritation, she smirks. "Of course not. You'll be in charge of decorating. As long as you begin as soon as lunch is over, you can have the hall decorated before sunset."

"You are joking."

"I assure you I'm not," McGonagall replies as Snape reluctantly drops back into his chair. "You'll be working with Hagrid, and if you don't finish the decorating before nightfall, you can do the clean up in the morning no matter how bad you feel."

Snape snarls, the noise coming out more animal than human, and a few of the other teachers edge away from him. McGonagall merely looks smug.

*PSM*

James returns to Hogwarts on Sunday after an afternoon of horse riding—something he's never done before, but found enjoyable—and retreats to the private quarters McGonagall gave him, not wanting to go to the rooms he shares with Snape. For the past hour he's been ignoring the waves of anger and bitterness that have been washing down the Bond from Snape and he's got no wish to have his good day completely spoiled by spending time with a pissed off Snape.

At times like this, he wonders if Snape is purposely letting his emotions wash through the Bond between them. He knows Snape's capable of using Occlumency to keep James from feeling anything from him, but since getting sober he doesn't tend to. It's an advantage for James; knowing precisely what Snape's feeling lets him know how to act, how much joking he can get away with before the other man snaps, and whether or not Snape, for all his snapping and posturing, would appreciate silent company.

He wants that now, James can tell, but James isn't in a mood to indulge him. He just wants to bask in the lingering warm, fuzzy feelings he gets from spending time with Narcissa and remember the feel of her lips and the taste of her mouth. And he wants to do it in a hot bath that'll ease the aches in his muscles that he never expected one would get from riding a horse.

*PSM*

Enfys has barely sat down at zir desk when the office door bangs open and Hermione storms in, stomping over to her desk and dropping her bag on it.

"Date didn't go so well then," zie notes.

"A joke."

"I'm sorry?"

"He thought it was a joke. The whole thing. He thought I asked him out just to prank him, to embarrass him or something. He told me all this _after_ I tried to kiss him, because apparently kissing him was 'taking it too far'. The _nerve_ of that man," she growls, yanking out of her bag the paperwork she'd taken home over the weekend and slamming it on the desk. "To think I would ever do something like that. And he only said yes out of some twisted need to prove to himself that he was right. He couldn't just say no when I first asked him and save us both the bloody trouble, could he? No. He had to be a stupid, self-absorbed, self-hating arsehole!"

She flops into her seat and Enfys waits a moment to be sure she's definitely finished before getting up and going over, wrapping her in a hug.

"Do you want me to come home with you tonight and we can eat ice cream and watch Buffy?"

"Thanks, but no. I did almost no work this weekend; I'm probably going to be stuck here until late."

"I'll get you something chocolately for lunch then and we can trash talk Snape."

She laughs. "No. I'm done with him, it's over."

Zie kisses her hair and breaks the hug, returning to zir own desk. "Good on you for moving on. We'll find you a nice, attractive, non-animalistic man to date."

Hermione wrinkles her nose. "I don't actually care to find someone, you know. I'm not pining for a man in my life; if someone nice shows up then I won't object, but I'm not searching for anyone. How about you focus on finding yourself a date instead? Your obsession with my love life is clearly a cover for your own desperate need to find a girl."

Enfys puts a hand to zir chest and gasps in mock offence. "How dare you! I'm interested in your love life because I care about you," zie says pompously, then lifts the hand to zir forehead and sighs. "But it's true. I am a lonely, miserable soul in desperate need of a woman to love me."

"Don't you mean to make love to you?" Hermione teases. Zie winks and grins.

"That too."


	8. Winter, Part 1

**Winter, Part 1**

James doesn't look up from marking fourth year essays in their quarters when Snape asks suddenly, "Do you remember Jessica Diamond?"

"The Ravenclaw tart who was in our year? The one—" He breaks off, shooting Snape a wary look. Their school years are a topic generally avoided in all conversations and he can't imagine why Snape would bring up Jessica Diamond of all people except to start a fight.

"The one you and Black bribed into going on a fake date with me in sixth year."

James glances at him, but Snape's gaze remains fixed on the fireplace. "Why are you bringing this up?"

"Who detailed the plan?" Snape asks instead of answering. "Did you pair or did you let her decide how far to take things?"

"Why are you asking?" James pushes. "You took revenge on us for that."

Snape glances at him. "You think that's why I'm asking?"

"What else am I supposed to think?"

Snape looks back to the fire, scowling. "It doesn't matter."

James watches him for a moment longer, but he seems intent to let the matter go so James returns to his marking. He gets through three and a half papers before Snape speaks again.

"I was asked on a date."

James doesn't say anything for a moment because he doesn't think he can keep the incredulity from his voice. He doesn't need the Bond to know that it would be a bad idea to let Snape know a prank is his first thought as well.

"By who?" he eventually asks.

"A woman."

"Does this woman have a name?"

"It's not relevant."

James resists the urge to roll his eyes. "Alright, fine. So what, you want to know if I think she's pranking you?"

"You're the resident expert."

James ignores that; responding would only cause an argument. "If you think she is, just say no. Unless you actually like her."

He can't quite keep the scepticism out of his voice and Snape looks at him, gaze narrowing slightly. "Why is that so difficult to imagine?"

"You've never shown any interest in women in the last seven years. Or anyone for that matter. I've never even see you check out someone in the street. And from what I remember in school Lily was the only girl you ever showed any interest in. To be honest I was surprised you ever said yes to Jessica Diamond."

"How do I tell?"

"If she's pranking you? I don't know. Do you know her? Does she have a reason to prank you like this?"

"She was a Gryffindor."

James does roll his eyes then. "You can't judge a person based on their Hogwarts house, Severus, and you can't hold a grudge against everyone in that house because we were pricks to you in school."

Snape scowls at the fire again. "I can think of no reason she would," he admits. "But I can think of no reason she would ask me out, either."

"Wow. Just when I thought I knew the depths of your self-hatred you manage to surprise me. You seriously don't think a woman could just like you enough to want to date you?"

"No," Snape answers curtly. "I am an inherently dislikeable man. I'm not about to delude myself otherwise."

James shakes his head. "No one on earth could possibly hate you more than you hate yourself, Severus. I don't think you're as terrible as you think you are and this woman obviously feels the same. So go out with her."

"You don't—" Snape cuts himself off, then rephrases, "Surely you don't believe that?"

Careful wording is one of the first things Oliver worked on with Snape, James knows, teaching him to phrase things as questions or ambiguous statements so they aren't orders.

"Yes, I do. I know why you hate yourself, Severus, but I know you can be a decent bloke when you actually put in the effort. Put the effort in with this woman. You might actually enjoy yourself for once. A relationship with someone could do you some good."

"You're assuming I like her."

James throws up his hands in exasperation. "If you don't then why are you even asking about this? Say no and be done with it; it's not like you have a problem with being rude to people. It should be easy to turn a woman down. You're making this whole thing way more complicated than you need to, Severus. Either say yes and have some fun, or just say no. If she does seem to be tricking you, break it off and put that scathing tongue of yours to good use. I have essays to mark."

*PSM*

Snape is the last person Hermione expects to find waiting for the lift when it opens on her floor as she gets home late from work one evening. She hasn't expected to ever see him again and even went so far as to decide she would avoid Hogsmeade until next summer, when he would be finished at Hogwarts and as such be far less likely to be there. He looks a bit startled to see her, which is ridiculous when he's standing on her floor and she highly doubts there's anyone else in the building he knows, but it quickly vanishes to his usual bland expression as she steps off the lift and stalks past him.

"Hermione, wait."

She turns and folds her arms over her chest.

Snape clears his throat. "Could we talk in your flat?" he asks uncomfortably.

"No."

She feels a bit bad when his discomfort grows, but she reminds herself how she felt at the end of the second date and doesn't change her answer. He shoves his hands in his pockets and when he speaks his voice is stiff.

"I wished to apologise for my behaviour after... the date."

"Is that it?"

He looks at her, opens his mouth, shuts it again, and she hears his teeth grind, then, "I'm sorry for distrusting your motives in the first place when I had no reason to."

She shakes her head. "I get that bit. It probably seemed out of the blue and I can understand you wondering about it. What I don't get is why you didn't just say no in the first place instead of humiliating me."

"That was not my intention."

"Wasn't it?" she challenges.

"Not for agreeing in the first place. Had it been a prank, yes I intended to humiliate you in revenge. But it wasn't why I said yes."

"Then why did you?"

"To prove that I am not someone worth dating."

She raises her eyebrows at him. "Well I don't know where you got that idea because you were good company at first. But you've explained yourself and I accept your apology. So I suppose I'll see you around."

She turns away, digging in her bag for her keys and moving down the hall towards her door.

"Hermione."

She looks back. He hasn't moved even to take his hands from his pockets and he looks at her with an unreadable expression. "Do you... would you... like... to go out with me again?" he asks. She frowns, turning fully to face him.

"Was that asking if I would, or if I will?"

It seems to almost pain him to admit, "Both." The pain confuses her at first, but his earlier words replay in her mind and she wonders if it just pains him to admit he's asking for confirmation that she—that someone—could actually like him.

"I would."

She wonders how he can look surprised at that when she's already been on two dates with him. The expression quickly clears, though, and he asks, "Will you?"

"Why are you asking? You've already said you only agreed to make a point, not because you wanted to."

"I... enjoyed it." He pauses, swallows, then almost mutters his next words, "I enjoyed spending time with you. I would like to do it again. If you will."

"Where will you take me?"

He blinks. "What?"

"When you ask a woman out on a date, the general idea is to have a suggestion of where you want to take them."

"I... where would you like to go?"

She smiles. "Nice try. You can owl me sometime in the next week. Good night, Severus."

*PSM*

On the 17th of December, Hermione waits for forty-five minutes at the foot of the building in London that's the address Snape owled her four days earlier. She checks the letter and her location sixteen times to reassure herself she's in the right place, then eventually gives up and goes home. She changes into her favourite jeans, t-shirt, and sweater, then picks up the phone, dialling a number and listening to it ring six times before she gets an answer.

"Yello?"

"Hey, Enfys, it's Hermione."

"Hey, what's up?"

"Are you busy?"

Zie gives a long suffering sigh. "I should be so lucky on a Friday night. Why?"

"Could you come over?"

There's a pause, then, "Do you want me to bring ice cream?"

She smiles even though zie can't see it. "Haagen Dazs Caramel Cone, if you wouldn't mind."

"Oh, sweetie. I'll be over fast as a snitch."

*PSM*

Snape wakes up in pain. His wrists burn and he lifts his head to find them bound over him with silver chains, which are looped through metals bars that make up the top half of a stable partition. There's more wrapped around his ankles. He tugs and struggles, but that only serves to send a fresh wave of pain tearing through his limbs, almost bad enough to make him pass out again.

He forces himself to breathe through it and looks around. The stable he's in seems abandoned, if the lack of farm animals and equipment and the abundance of cobwebs and dust is any indication, and he seems to be alone. All he can hear is wind howling outside and he can smell only the lingering scent of animal musk and hay.

He closes his eyes and leans his head against the partition. He'd seen a jet of red light coming towards him when he left Hogwarts. He remembers dodging, but either he wasn't quick enough or his attacker wasn't alone and someone hit him from behind. Unless the attack was seen, he doubts anyone will realise he's missing for hours; James knows he's going out so he isn't expected back at Hogwarts for a while. Fortunately he knows he can use the Bond to call for James. He's never done it consciously before, but James has complained often enough about him subconsciously 'tugging' on the Bond that he figures it can't be difficult, and sets to silently demanding James' presence.

He's awake five minutes before he hears a door open and the wind howls louder for a moment until the door shuts again, and two sets of footsteps approach. He looks around to see two women come into view, clearly twins. They've both got auburn hair hanging in gentle waves past their shoulders and the same lidded brown eyes, but one wears skin-hugging Muggle clothes while the other is dressed in frumpy maroon robes that make it impossible to tell if she's as thin as her sister, though her face suggests she is. He looks at them, waiting for them to speak and tell him what's going on. He isn't going to give them the satisfaction of asking.

"I'm Aisling," says the Muggle clad one in an Irish accent. "This is me sister, Bláthnat. We've kidnapped you."

Snape raises an eyebrow at that statement of the obvious, but the effect is lost on the two sisters.

"We're holding you ransom," Bláthnat elaborates.

"Against?" he asks.

"What?"

"Whom are you holding me ransom against?" he snaps, wondering if this is really happening. He can't imagine why he'd dream about being kidnapped by a pair of apparently stupid Irish twins, but it seems more plausible than actually being kidnapped by stupid Irish twins.

"Harry," Aisling answers. "Your son."

"I'm well aware of who Harry is, you idiot."

"Don't call me sister an idiot!" Bláthnat defends, stepping forwards but otherwise making no threatening motions. She doesn't even draw her wand.

"I do apologise," Snape drawls. "You're both idiots. You can't hold me ransom against Harry."

"Yeah we can. You're his father. He'll pay us loads of money to get you back."

Snape laughs, though not for long. The actions sends vibrations up his arms that make the chains shift and send pain sparking through him. He refuses to let it show on his face though, curling his lip into a sneer as he looks up at them. "Harry's in Azkaban, so how exactly do you expect him to pay you?"

"He's super powerful," Aisling says. "He can break out."

"If Harry was willing to break out of Azkaban, don't you think he'd have done it already?"

"He'll break out for you. You're his dad."

Snape lets his sneer shift into an unpleasant grin.

"Do you really think," he says in a soft voice that the twins shift nearer to hear, "that if Harry breaks out of Azkaban it'll be to withdraw money and pay you?"

They're obviously even stupider than they appear because they exchange confused looks then Bláthnat says, "Yes? What else would he do?"

Snape thinks he would actually find more intelligence in a first year group of Hufflepuffs. "He'll kill you, you pair of half-brained morons. I'm his father; you'll be lucky if he doesn't torture you into insanity before he rips your guts out and strings you up in Diagon Alley for trying to hurt me."

Harry would do no such thing. He doesn't think so, anyway. To the best of his knowledge Harry hasn't harmed anyone since his imprisonment and Snape doesn't deceive himself into thinking he's worth enough to Harry to entail such a violent death for a simple matter of kidnapping. But it's satisfying to see the twins exchange a terrified look and shift away from him, glancing around like they expect Harry to appear as though he knows they're talking about him.

"Maybe—" Aisling begins but Bláthnat cuts her off with a sharp hiss, grabbing her arm and dragging her away, out of Snape's sight and beyond his hearing range. They're gone for nearly five minutes before returning, and Bláthnat says, "You're going to give us loads of money to set you free."

"I'm not."

"But if you don't we won't let you go," Aisling tells him.

"And how do you expect me to get any money when I'm tied up in a barn?"

"It's a stable, actually," she corrects him. "And... uh... you can write to Gringotts and tell them to send all your money."

"Gringotts goblins don't hand out the contents of a person's vault just because of a letter."

The two women exchange glances then Bláthnat says, "We'll have to torture him. With knives and stuff."

"_You_ do it. I'm not watching that."

"But I get sick when other people bleed."

"So don't make him bleed. Use the Cruciatus. It might work on a person instead of that mangy cat you tried."

Bláthnat reluctantly draws her wand and points it at Snape, who looks at her calmly. It's an effort, not because he's worried but because it's genuinely difficult not to show how painful he finds their stupidity.

"_Crucio!_"

Snape's nose itches. "Please stop."

Bláthnat lowers her wand. "Are you mocking me?"

"Why would I mock my kidnappers? That would only annoy them and prompt them to torture me more."

"I think you're mocking me." She shoves her wand in her pocket. "Aisling, get that riding crop that was left by the door. We'll beat him into submission."

"Good luck with that," Snape tells them, but shifts and then winces from the rub of the chains. Bláthnat notices and smiles as Aisling walks away grumbling.

"We will make you give us the money."

"I wouldn't toss you a knut if you were begging on the streets."

"You—" She breaks of with a yelp at the sudden crack of someone Apparating into the stable. Snape doesn't show the relief he feels at seeing James appear.

"_Stupefy!_"

Bláthnat is knocked off her feet, hitting the far wall unconscious.

"There's another," Snape warns him and James turns—

_Whack!_

A riding crop whips against James' face and he cries out, wand slipping from his fingers, staggering back as Aisling brandishes the crop again, lashing it against his skin.

"No one" _Whack!_ "hurts" _Whack! _"my" _Whack! _"sister!" _Whack!_

Snape grits his teeth against the pain in his arms and stretches his legs towards James' wand, trying to drag it close enough to grip between both feet and lift it to his hands. He's not entirely sure he's quite that flexible, but he has to try. However he doesn't even get near it before Aisling knocks it aside, kicking it well beyond his reach.

"Just hit her!" Snape yells furiously at James, who lunges forwards and does exactly that even as Aisling swings the crop towards his face again. She misses and James' fist slams into her jaw. She shrieks and stumbles, falling onto her backside and James going down with her. He hits her again and her nose breaks this time. She wails, blood splurting down her face, and doesn't get up when James climbs off her and gets to his feet.

"Untie me," Snape demands, uncaring that he's not supposed to issue orders. It's an extreme circumstance and his hands feel like they're burning off at the wrists.

"Leave him!" counters a new voice, another female and Irish one though Snape can't see her. James spins towards it, but a tremor runs through his hands that Snape knows comes from not obeying his order. The woman stalks forwards, booted footsteps heavy on the floor, and Snape lays eyes on a woman he's almost certain must be Bláthnat and Aisling's mother. He holds a faint hope that their stupidity is genetic, but she keeps her wand trained on James as she comes closer, even as she glances at the two younger women and mutters something in Irish, her tone clearly insulting.

James shifts towards Snape and the woman silently throws a Stinging Hex at him. "Stay where you are."

James doesn't. "Hurts me more to disobey him than to disobey you."

"James, ignore my last order," Snape says, albeit reluctantly. The pain is becoming harder to ignore, but James will be no good to him if the woman curses him.

The woman nods approvingly as James goes still then snaps, "Aisling!" and orders something in Irish. Aisling, still bleeding and moaning slightly, gets up, picking up James and Bláthnat's dropped wands and then going to her sister, grabbing her under the arms and dragging her out of the stable.

"Squib," the older woman says, correctly interpreting James' querying expression at why Aisling didn't wake her sister with magic. "Wouldn't be so bad if she'd got some brains, but they're both dumb as donkeys. You, sit down there."

James moves and sits against the partition opposite Snape, lifting his hands over his head when the woman orders and wincing when she conjures ropes to tie around his wrists, trapping him to the barred part of the partition like Snape is. She tests them, making sure they're secure before moving over to Snape and tugging on the chains. He jerks, but clamps his jaws shut, refusing to cry out.

"Tell me what they told you."

"Everything," Snape says between gritted teeth. The woman jerks the chains and a whimper forces its way out his throat.

"My girls got their brains from their father. I'm not falling for the old trick where you tell me they told you everything and I say something more specific which gives you information you didn't actually know. Tell me what they told you and I'll see about swapping these chains for rope."

"Bite me, bitch."

She taps her wand to the chains and they slide up the bar they're wrapped around, pulling him up so hard and fast one shoulder wrenches out of the socket and the combined pain of that and the silver draws a scream from him that he chokes off as soon as it starts.

"Leave him alone!" James yells, pulling at his own bindings.

"Hush, you. Just tell me what they told you, Snape. I really doubt anything they said is worth this pain."

"You'll die when he comes," Snape pants, struggling to get his legs under him so he can take the weight off his arms. The woman narrows her gaze, and then scowls, flicking her wand to let the chains slide back down, letting Snape sit again.

"The pair of idiots. I told them we weren't ransoming you. As if I'd be stupid enough to piss off your murderer of a son."

She grumbles something else in Irish then stalks off. They hear the door open and bang shut and only then does Snape let himself vocalise his pain, swearing violently and then whining like an animal, squeezing his eyes shut.

"We'll get out," James says.

"When?" He tries to snarl it but only manages to sound pleading. "Did you tell anyone I was taken?"

"No, but—"

"Then no one will notice us missing until morning! Oh, _fuck_."

He smacks his head back against the partition, hoping to at least distract himself with a different type of pain. Then he hears a thud and a snort and opens his eyes to see Prongs ungainly sprawled opposite him. He turns back into James, now free of his bindings, and grins, getting to his feet.

"Told you we'll get out. Still have to escape this barn which'd be easier with a wand, but we'll get out."

Snape has to fight back a whimper when James tugs at the chains to try and undo them, but after two minutes of tugging he can't help snapping, "Stop it!"

James jerks his hands away.

"Just go. Get out, find a wand or some help, then come back. And for fuck sake, be quick about it."

*PSM*

Hermione's phone is ringing when she gets home from work on Monday and she grumbles, not really in the mood to speak to her parents or grandparents—they and Enfys are the only ones to ever call her, and she saw Enfys just half an hour ago—but she's too polite to ignore it. She doesn't hide her weariness when she speaks, hoping whoever's on the other end will hear and take the hint.

"Hel-"

"Have you seen this evening's _Prophet_?" Enfys cuts her off.

"No, why?"

"You need to take a look. Right now."

"I don't have a subscription. I only get the morning edition."

"Your pet werewolf is missing."

"Oh, Enfys, I'm really not in the mood—"

"I'm serious, Hermione. Severus Snape and James Potter have vanished. It says neither of them have been seen since early Friday evening."

Hermione drops onto the sofa. "Does it say anything else?"

"Not really. They've got no leads on where they've gone. Snape was last seen leaving Hogwarts about quarter past six that evening, and Potter ran out about half an hour later."

"Merlin. They think something happened to them?"

"That's the impression I'm getting. You know this means he didn't stand you up."

"Possibly. We don't know for certain he didn't disappear of his own accord."

"And Potter decided to go after him?" Enfys says sceptically.

"They are... friends," Hermione tells zir, hesitating on the word because she's not sure if they actually are friends or just two people magically bound together.

Enfys notices the pause, though. "Friends? Nothing more than that?"

"More... you think they're together? No. I've spent time with them both and I never got the impression either of them was interested in men."

"Sometimes you don't," Enfys says. "No one expected it when my brother came out. But it would be one hell of a story, don't you think? Snape did bang Potter's wife, gave her an illegitimate kid, now they're pals? That could make for lots of heated, angry sex and a horribly self-destructive relationship."

"Oh my god, Enfys, you can't talk like that about people."

"Just some harmless gossip," zie replies and Hermione can hear the smile in zir voice.

* * *

**Elsewhere**

"There. Perfect."

Draco folds his arms over his chest and scowls at Harry, the two of them standing in their living room four days before Christmas. Firelight glitters off the green tinsel crowning his head and the silver wrapped around his torso as a sash and circling his hips like a belt. "I am not a Christmas tree."

Harry smiles at him. "No, you're much prettier."

"Well I should hope so!" Draco exclaims, vaguely offended at being compared, even favourably, to a tree. "But I don't need decorations to look pretty."

Harry steps up to him, wrapping his arms around Draco's neck and leaning in to kiss him. Draco tries to stay firm to display his continuing displeasure, but gives in after barely a moment, unfolding his arms to wrap around Harry's waist as he kisses him back.

He breaks it when Harry starts giggling, drawing away slightly to look his boyfriend in the face. "What's so funny?"

"I was going to ask," Harry says, eyes gleaming with mirth, "if you'd mind being decorated if the tinsel was _all_ you were wearing, but I just imagined—" he breaks off with a laugh, making Draco look at him oddly even as his own mouth quirks, "just imagined you with—with tinsel around your—your—"

He bursts into laughter, unable to finish, but Draco gets the idea and shakes his head, smiling. "For someone who's asexual, you have a dirty mind, Harry Evans."

"Not as dirty as you," Harry mutters, his grin turning embarrassed and face flushing. Draco smirks, leaning in to kiss him, but there's a pounding knock at the door just as he starts to deepen it and Harry pulls away.

"I should get that."

"Or you could ignore it."

"It might be important," Harry counters, kissing him quickly then drawing away. Draco follows, stepping up behind Harry to wrap his arms around his waist and rest his head on his shoulder, hoping to make a point to whoever is at the door that he's not interested in being disturbed.

But his heart sinks in his chest when Harry opens the door to revel a man with his back to them and wearing black robes with the word GUARD written across the back in white letters. He turns at the sound of the door opening to show an unfamiliar face set into a vaguely bored expression.

"Hey, Evans. I thought you might want to know that your father was in the paper this morning. He's gone missing, him and James Potter."

Draco staggers as Harry abruptly turns transparent and incorporeal, then jerks back, disturbed at finding himself inside his boyfriend—and not in a sexy way. Harry doesn't notice. His skin is now covered in rune scars, his clothes have changed from jeans and a jumper to grey prison robes, and his eyes lose focus as they stare in front of him. All the humour leaves his face, turning his expression scarily blank.

"I can find them," he says, not even questioning that the man is telling the truth. Before Draco can say or do anything, Harry vanishes completely, and the man disappears with him. With nothing else to do, Draco shuts the door and returns to the living room, angrily tearing off the tinsel and hoping that Harry comes back again.

* * *

Snape and James, who's been more securely tied after the first failed escape attempt, tense when they hear the door to the stable open and several sets of footsteps approach them. Aisling, Bláthnat, and their mother walk up to the stall where they're tied, but to James and Snape's confusion, the three of them just stand there in a line, blank expressions on their faces.

Then there's a crack and Harry appears in the middle of the stall. James gapes then grins, and Snape drops his head back against the partition and mutters a thanks. The chains which have remained around his wrists and ankles since he was captured now unwind themselves, but when his hands drop down into his lap he sees the flesh of his wrists have burned all the way through, showing a glimpse of bone amidst burnt and mangled muscles and tendons. James scrambles to his feet and hurries over to Snape, lifting his trouser leg to peer at his ankles and inhaling sharply at the sight of the mangled flesh there. Snape's merely glad he's lost the feeling in his limbs.

"How did you know we were here?" Snape asks Harry as the three woman shift to stand in a group and the chains levitate up and grow to tie around them. Harry moves over to Snape and crouches, reaching out to lay a hand on his arm.

"You were in the news," Harry answers, holding his other hand out to James. The minute James' hand touches his, the three of them vanish.

*PSM*

Hermione enters the ground floor ward and pauses briefly to look around, eyes flicking over the four occupied beds out of the six on the ward. Snape is in the last on the left, the head of the bed tilted up to let him sit and look out the window he's near, while his hands rest at his sides, both wrists wrapped in bandages. He doesn't look at her when she approaches, not even when she clears her throat and speaks.

"Hello, Severus."

"What do you want?"

"I wanted to see how you are and see about rescheduling our date. If you're still up for it."

That prompts him to look at her. "Aren't you going to hex me for standing you up?"

Hermione comes closer, dropping into the chair by the bed. "Did you? I was under the impression you were kidnapped and tortured." Her eyes flick to the bandages wrapped around his wrists. "What happened?"

"They chained me with silver until it burned through my flesh."

She winces in sympathy. "Can they heal them?"

"If I'm lucky I'll be able to hold a wand and walk before the school term starts again. Months before my fine motor skills and dexterity are back to normal."

"At least it's not permanent," she says. "Who did it? All the newspapers say is it was anarchists."

He scowls and mutters, "Essentially. They intended to drop me in Hyde Park on Christmas so I would transform in public. One of them has a son in Hogwarts and she objects to him being taught by a werewolf, but of course she didn't actually want me to harm anyone, hence the damage to my wrists and ankles."

"It's good they let Harry out to find you before then."

Snape snorts. "Is that what the papers are saying? They didn't _let_ him out; he learned of my situation and took it upon himself to come and find me."

"He—" She cuts herself off and Snape glances at her and she smiles wryly. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised he could break out of Azkaban. I forgot over the years just how much power he has." She frowns. "Does that mean he took himself back?"

"The Aurors certainly didn't arrest him."

Hermione shakes her head. "I don't understand that at all. Why would he stay there?"

"He's insane," Snape answers simply. "He might have been clear-headed enough to come after James and me, but he's not sane."

Hermione takes a moment to think about that. She's only visited Harry once in Azkaban, years ago. She feels slightly guilty about it, but the prison creeps her out and Harry didn't seem to notice she was there anyway. The guards mentioned that he never speaks to anyone, but she never applied the word insane to him. Perhaps it's why he stays there, though. She knows he feels guilty for the things he did at Voldemort's command, but he's honestly repentant and the torture he suffered seems like punishment enough for the crimes he committed. He doesn't need to go to prison for them and she doesn't understand why he would want to be locked away again like that, even if he isn't being tortured this time. But if he truly is insane, maybe the decision makes some convoluted sense to him.

*PSM*

The ward door opens and footsteps approach them. Snape glances over and isn't overly pleased to see McGonagall approaching. He doesn't really want her to find out about anything between him and Hermione.

"Miss Granger, I didn't expect to see you here."

"I just came to see how Severus was doing," Hermione answers, getting to her feet, and surprise flickers across McGonagall's face at her use of his first name. "You can owl me about our date when you're feeling better," Hermione adds to Snape, and he stiffens, feeling McGonagall's gaze fix on him like a hawk. "I hope you recover quickly. Good bye."

He listens to her footsteps disappear down the ward, hears the door open and swing shut, and the moment it does, McGonagall steps closer.

"Severus—"

"She asked me, Minerva. I am not preying on your precious Gryffindors."

"An ex-student, Severus?" she says as though she hadn't heard him. "What are you thinking? You're old enough to be her father!"

"I know!" he snaps at her. "I'm well aware of all the reasons why there should be nothing between us; she's the one intent on ignoring them."

"You don't have to agree! You're old enough to know better, Severus. You can say no."

He glowers at her. "Maybe I don't want to," he snarls. "Have you considered that, Minerva? Have you considered that maybe for once in my life I would like something _good_? I can't even begin to understand why, but she actually enjoys my company and maybe I don't fucking deserve it, but I'm selfish enough to take it anyway when it's offered to me. She's a grown woman, she's not a _current_ student, and if our ages don't concern her why should it concern me?"

For a moment McGonagall gapes at him, opening her mouth to say something then shutting it again, then she nods stiffly and sits down in the chair Hermione vacated.

*PSM*

Snape wakes up on the morning of the twenty-sixth with the thought that his wrists and ankles are on fire and the feeling that he's spent a night throwing himself at a brick wall. He's barely aware that he's naked on the floor of a cell in the basement of Saint Mungo's and it takes his brain a long moment to realise what's going on when someone curls a hand around the back of his head and lifts him slightly, holding a vial to his lips and encouraging him to drink. Chalky liquid spills into his mouth and with effort he swallows, but the moment he does the fire in his limbs begins to cool. He's laid back down and drifts in the fogginess of high-strength pain potions, vaguely aware of someone carefully applying a salve to his wrists and ankles before bandaging them, then he's shifted onto a stretcher and moved, losing consciousness before reaching his final destination.

He's not sure how much later it is when he comes around again, but he's back in bed on the ward and James is in a chair beside him. Without Snape's prompting, James gets up and holds a glass of water with a straw in front of his face, letting Snape drink then putting the glass aside again before talking.

"How you feeling?"

"Shit."

"The joys of not being on Wolfsbane. It'll take you longer to recover."

"My wrists?" Snape asks, closing his eyes. His limbs ache only a little more than the rest of him, but he remembers the healers warning him that transforming, especially without Wolfsbane, would set his recovery back.

"You undid all the repairs they'd made," James tells him. "They mentioned possibly trying some experimental technique to speed up the healing process more, so you're as recovered as much as possible before the next full moon."

Snape frowns slightly. "As long as they don't sacrifice quality for speed, not on my wrists. I don't mind on my ankles, but I'd rather take longer than risk not getting all my fine motor skills back in my hands. I need my dexterity for potion making."

"I know. The healer's coming to talk to you later, when you're feeling better, so you can discuss things then."

Snape grunts his agreement, and drifts back to sleep.


	9. Winter, Part 2

**Disclaimer:** Although the name used is made up by me, Cyrus is a Supernatural character. Cookies to anyone that figures out who is it, though there is a pretty big clue (two actually, but one more obvious than the other). If you're not familiar with Supernatural, don't worry; you won't suffer for not recognising the character.

**Winter, Part 2**

**Warning:** Torture.

"Happy New Year."

James slips his arms around Narcissa's waist and returns the sentiment in a murmur before kissing her deeply. She moans appreciatively into his mouth and wraps both arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Around them other witches and wizards cheer in the New Year as Hogsmeade village is lit up by the Weasley Wizard Wheezes fireworks display, while at the north end of the village Hogwarts castle is lit up to show 2005 in huge numbers across the side, each digit a different colour corresponding to the four Hogwarts houses. James isn't sure who did it, but he's certain it wasn't sanctioned by McGonagall.

Narcissa breaks the kiss, but doesn't pull away. "Do you have to stay and supervise the children?"

Those over seventeen were given permission to go into the village for the night, though James has seen a couple of students he knows aren't that old yet even if they're sixth years. He pretended not to notice them.

"No. I was supposed to, but Minerva felt getting kidnapped was reason enough to let me off chaperoning duties this once."

"Then come home with me and spend the rest of the night."

He draws back slightly to examine her face, but he finds only honest desire. It's not a look he's had directed at him in a long time and it fills him with a warmth that travels straight to his groin.

"I would love to," he answers and kisses her again.

*PSM*

Narcissa wakes up to the feel of fingers trailing over her back, walking down the curve of her spine then drawing light swirls on her skin, moving back up towards her shoulders and making her shiver, then brushing over the faint scar just to the right of her spine.

"How did you get this?"

"A hex from my roommate in my third year at Hogwarts."

"Not a very nice roommate."

"She came to regret it."

He doesn't inquire further, but bends and presses a kiss to the scar. She rolls over to look at him and he kisses her forehead then settles back down on his side, one hand tucked under his head as he watches her. She reaches up to brush her fingers over his collarbone, fingering the words tattooed under it, just below a ridge of thick pink scar tissue and overlaid by thin white scars that spiderweb over his chest, shoulder, and upper arm. "Tell me the story behind this."

He reaches up to trail his own finger over the pink scar. "Lucius had me use a blood quill and I cut over the words after. I got the tattoo in ninety-nine, and Severus did this to me about two years ago."

She raises an eyebrow. "Yet you remain Bound to him?"

"There were extenuating circumstances, and there's no one else. The Bond isn't something I would transfer to just anyone."

"This Bond can't be broken?"

He shakes his head. "Only transferred. I'll spend the rest of my life a slave to one person or another, always in spirit even if not in practice."

"I'm sorry."

He shrugs. "Not your fault."

"I was blind to your presence in my home for fourteen years. I recognise that I am not entirely blameless."

James takes her hand, bringing it to his lips and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "It was a long time ago. I've moved on. I'm also really hungry. Can we call Pippin for breakfast in bed?"

She tugs her hand back, shooting him a disapproving look. "I do not eat breakfast in bed."

"Ever?" he asks incredulously.

"Breakfast, like all meals, should be taken at a table. Beds are for sleeping and carnal pleasures," she tells him, rolling over and getting up, taking the silk dressing gown from the chair nearby and slipping it on.

"Did you just refer to sex as a carnal pleasure?"

"It's an accurate term."

"It's nine o'clock in the morning and you spent the night engaging in 'carnal pleasures'. It's not like we're in a situation where the word 'sex' could be considered too forward."

"If you object to my terminology, perhaps I won't indulge you in any further carnal pleasures."

James feigns grave seriousness. "No objections."

"Not even to the withdrawal of carnal pleasures?"

"No! I mean, yes. I object to that. Vigorously."

She saunters towards the en suite bathroom. "I thought you might."

*PSM*

Brooklyn Hopkins, Azkaban's warden, moves around his desk to shake the hand of Cyrus Filidei, Azkaban's newest guard.

"Welcome to the team, Cyrus. Annabeth will take you on a tour around the prison now, show you the ropes, all that jazz."

"Thanks," Cyrus answers. He's American, average sized, and unremarkable looking aside from his slightly large forehead. "I'm looking forward to meeting the prisoners."

Brooklyn pulls his hand away, a slight frown marring his face as he watches Cyrus walk out with Annabeth, but he shakes it off. He's heard odder things than that over the years, but he makes a note to keep an eye on the new man. Guards who take a shine to prisoners can end up easy prey for the manipulative ones, or they can take it upon themselves to dish out the justice they think the courts don't. Neither is good.

*PSM*

"... and this is Dead Block."

"That's a morbid name," Cyrus remarks to Annabeth, looking down the windowless corridor lined with cells. Outside the one on the end a man sits on the floor, quietly conversing with the prisoner inside while another male guard leans against the wall a little way up, clearly bored.

"After Voldemort's downfall the whole prison was reformed, prisoners moved, new warden, new prison regime, you know the drill. But two days afterwards, six of the thirteen prisoners on this block died. All killed themselves in the night."

"Nasty."

"This the newbie?" asks the guard leaning against the wall, straightening up as Annabeth and Cyrus approach.

"Cyrus Filidei," Annabeth introduces. "Cyrus, meet Terrence Tanner."

They exchange greetings. In the cell opposite, a large, unshaved man with thinning greying-black hair lounges on his bed and looks through the bars at Cyrus.

"Couldn't you have hired another bird, Parker?" he asks, expression clearly unimpressed as he eyes Cyrus. "Got enough blokes around here as it is."

"Cassie Derrick," Annabeth says to Cyrus as he looks in at the prisoner. "Serial killer. If we'd have caught him eight months earlier he'd have gotten the Dementor's Kiss and we could have saved two people."

"One of my victims looked kinda like you," Cassie says to Cyrus with a sneer. "You got a sister? _Had_ a sister?"

"Oh I got plenty of siblings," Cyrus answers. "But I doubt you killed any of them. I'm estranged from my family anyway. Hey, don't you have Harry Evans locked up here?" he asks Annabeth. The man on the floor looks around at his words and Cyrus lays eyes on a sallow-skinned face with a large hooked nose. He gets to his feet with a grimace and Cyrus catches a glimpse of bandages around his wrists.

"Don't expect anything out of him," the man says. "At this point I'm wondering if I dreamt seeing him before Christmas. I'm done here, Tanner."

Tanner nods, flicks his fingers in a vague goodbye wave to Annabeth and Cyrus, and leads the man out.

"What was that about?" Cyrus asks as he shifts to look into the last cell, where Harry lies on his bed, as unresponsive as he always is.

"Severus Snape, Evans' father. You don't keep up with the news? Him and James Potter got kidnapped by some anarchists," she explains when Cyrus shrugs. "Evans here broke out and rescued them, then came straight back again. No joke," she adds when Cyrus raises an eyebrow. "Most activity we've seen out of him in years. The rest of the time he eats, sleeps, and otherwise does nothing. Not half as interesting as people think. Come on, you can spend the afternoon on the front desk."

*PSM*

James sighs and sits up, throwing back his covers and swinging his legs out of bed, tucking his feet into his slippers, grabbing his dressing gown from the back of the door and pulling it on as he leaves, crosses the sitting room, and enters Snape's bedroom without knocking.

"Can you just say what you want to say to me?"

He sees the shadow of Snape moving in bed then hears, "_Lumos_," and a faint light spills over the room.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"That's bullshit. You're keeping me up with your preoccupation with whatever it is you want to ask me but won't, so just bloody ask it already."

Snape lowers his wand, angling it away so the light shines across the room, throwing his face into sharp relief. "It's about Lily."

James turns, returns to his own room and gets his wand from under his pillow before going back to Snape's room, casting a spell to light all the candles and then sitting in the armchair in the corner, keeping his wand in hand. "What about her?"

Snape douses the light on his own wand and sets it aside. James appreciates the gesture. They've fought over Lily before and she's one of several topics of conversation they avoid.

"Do you still love her?"

"Yes. I don't think I'll ever stop loving her."

"But you're dating Narcissa."

James lets out a long breath, suddenly understanding. "Lily's dead. I'm always going to love her, but that doesn't mean I have to spend the rest of my life never knowing the touch of another woman. I don't love Narcissa. Maybe one day I will, or maybe I won't, but whatever I feel for her doesn't cheapen what I had with Lily. Lily's never coming back; I'm not betraying her by having a relationship with someone else now."

Snape looks away and James revels in that guilt for a minute. He might have dealt with the fact that Snape slept with his wife, but it doesn't mean he truly forgave it and he still carries a lingering bitterness to Lily for cheating on him. It doesn't stop him remembering her with fondness and love, but it's there.

"I've betrayed Lily in other ways since she died," he continues when he thinks it's been long enough for Snape to stew in the guilt. "I worked for the man who killed her, even if it wasn't by choice, and I've said some foul things about her and her child. But this—moving on and living my life—that's not a betrayal." He pauses, then asks, "Anything else or can I go to bed now?"

Snape waves a hand towards the door and James gets up, heading towards it but pausing when he gets there. "Severus?"

He looks up.

"You won't gain anything by refusing to let go of the past, you know, and if you keep trying to cling to something you can't have you might lose the chance to take something you could have."

*PSM*

Snape isn't in the habit of lying to himself. He occasionally refuses to see the truth until it slaps him in the face and sometimes needs a shove from someone else to make him see it, but once he does he isn't prone to ignoring it and pretending it isn't real. It'd taken him two conversations with James, his snapping at McGonagall, and a reluctant discussion with Oliver, but by the time he finally goes on his third date with Hermione, he has to admit to himself that he's attracted to her.

And it terrifies him.

He hasn't been attracted to a woman since Lily. He hadn't thought he would ever be attracted to anyone except Lily, and his inability to express himself well hasn't improved since he was a teenager. What he feels for Hermione isn't half of what he felt for Lily, and he doesn't expect to ever grow to like Hermione that much, but he knows he doesn't want to mess up this growing relationship and he's already proven that he can do that easily. He takes a slight comfort from the fact that Hermione, like Lily, is a strong, intelligent, Muggleborn woman so there are similarities that he hopes can guide him, and at least this time there's no potential romantic competitors intent on making Snape's life a misery.

He can't help reaching for his wand when he hears the crack of Apparition behind him and relaxes only when he lays eyes on Hermione's familiar figure.

"Sorry I'm late," she gushes, hurrying over to him and tugging a coat tighter around herself. "Enfys was sick and I got lumped with all zir paperwork; zie's going to owe me a tub of Haagen Dasz when zie's better, I'm going to be busy all weekend." She stops for breath and smiles at him. "Sorry. Hi."

"You're only a minute late," he points.

"I know, but still. I hate being late."

"Given that I stood you up last time, I can forgive a minute of lateness," he says, then clears his throat and holds out his arm, hoping she doesn't think him old fashioned for doing so, but she slips her arm in his.

"It's good you can joke about it. How're your wrists and ankles?"

"Better than expected, worse than they could be. Why did you call your co-worker 'zie'?"

"Gender neutral pronoun. Enfys is bigender," she elaborates when Snape continues to frown.

"I don't know what that is," Snape admits.

"It means sometimes zie's a woman and sometimes a man."

"Zie is a metamorphmagus?"

"No, zie just wears different clothes and presents as male or female."

"Right."

"It's not that difficult to understand," Hermione says.

"I understand what you mean," he tells her. "I just can't understand why someone would do it. It seems a great deal simpler to pick a gender and stick with it."

"Did you pick your gender?"

"No, but I understand that some people don't identify with the gender they're born with so they change it. I'm just not one of them."

"Okay, but some people don't always feel the same gender their whole life. It's not about picking a gender, it's just that sometimes they feel like one gender and sometimes another so they change their clothes and general appearance to match how they feel regardless of what sex their body is."

He nods, still not entirely sure he understands, but old enough and wise enough now to know that just because he doesn't understand something doesn't mean he gets to question its validity. As a Head of House for fifteen years, he learned not to question it when someone told him they felt they didn't fit with society's concept of certain issues. He's seen suicides come from that.

"Where are we going?" Hermione asks him.

"Up there."

She tilts her head back to look up and then looks at him. "Why are we going to the top of an empty Muggle office building?"

"I'll show you when we get there."

She shoots him a curious look but says nothing more as he leads her inside, at least until she sees the security guard slumped on the floor behind his desk.

"Did you do that?" she whispers.

"He's only unconscious. I didn't hurt him."

"He's a Muggle! The Ministry—"

"The Ministry isn't omniscient," he interrupts, leading her to the lifts and pressing the call button. "They certainly can't tell when someone doses a person with Ricium Dust."

"Isn't Ricium Dust a controlled substance?"

"Perhaps," he says, pulling her into a lift when it arrives. She lets him and he presses the button for the top floor, the doors sliding closed and the lift rumbling upwards.

"I can't believe you drugged a Muggle guard for the sake of a date."

"He was the one foolish enough to open the doors to an apparent drunk long enough to let me drug him. If you disapprove that strongly, you can always go home, but I'd always thought Gryffindors had a better sense of adventure than that."

"Hmph."

He smirks and the corners of her lips twitch.

"I hope you've taken care of the security camera and alarms as well then," she says. "Otherwise drugging the guard will be no use."

"I hexed all their monitoring equipment. Muggle technology breaks all the time; they won't suspect anything amiss."

"What would you know about Muggle technology?"

"I am a half-blood."

"You didn't know cars had central locking."

He scowls and she smirks.

"I used Legilimency on the guard," he admits. "The cameras are constantly malfunctioning. Even if he gets suspicious about them and the alarm breaking the same night he passes out on duty, he won't learn anything. Ricium Dust causes short term memory loss so he won't remember my face either. We're safe from persecution."

"I hope so. The last thing I need is to get arrested for breaking and entering."

The lift reaches the top floor and they step out into a large open office space, completely empty of any desks, partitions, or even a left behind photocopier. Snape leads her across to a door opening onto a staircase and they go up to a second door which opens at a murmured "_Alohomora_" and leads onto the building's roof. Snape guides Hermione across it to where a cloth covered table sits waiting with two chairs, set with two covered plates and two wine glasses, a single candle on one side as well as a narrow vase holding a mezereon flower, and a corked green glass bottle on the other side.

"Wow," Hermione says. "This isn't something I'd expected of you."

He says nothing, just tugs his arm free and draws his wand, casting a Warming Charm over the area then moving to stand behind her. "Your coat."

She shrugs out of it. He takes it and hangs it on a waiting coat stand then pulls out one chair and waits for her to sit before standing by the table, raising his wand and moving it in a large circular motion over himself and the table. The surrounding lights of the city seem to dim while the sky overhead grows darker, making the stars appear to shine brighter. It's an advanced Astronomy spell designed to make star gazing easier and he traded Aurora Sinistra a vial of Vivid Dreams Draught in exchange for her teaching him it.

He's quietly smug to look down and catch Hermione looking impressed and he removes his cloak and hangs it up before sitting opposite her.

"Not your typical dinner table flower," she remarks, looking at the plant in the vase.

"Plants say a lot," he responds, tapping his wand to the bottle to uncork it then levitating it to pour dark liquid into both glasses. He was warned to avoid lifting anything weighty and avoid straining his tendons too much. "Most people don't realise the message they send with their choice of flower. Or they do and it's cliché, overused, and patently untrue."

"What does this plant say?"

"I'll let you figure it out on your own time," he tells her, picking up a half filled glass and holding it out. She takes it, glancing at the bottle now set to one side.

"This isn't wine."

"It's an organic apple and blueberry juice. I have an alternative if you don't like it."

She sips at it, swallows, and nods her agreement. "How long has it been since you had a drink?" she asks, setting the glass down.

He glances down at his own glass, drinking some before answering. "Two years, one month, two weeks, and a day."

"That's precise."

"Does it bother you?"

"No."

He watches her, searching for a sign she's lying without resorting to skimming her mind with Legilimency, then looks down and waves his wand over the table, vanishing the plate covers to reveal the steamed fish with chickpeas and currents underneath, still steaming as though freshly cooked thanks to the charms laid over them earlier.

"Did you cook this yourself?" Hermione asks, inhaling the scent of it appreciatively.

"Am I obligated to answer that?" he asks, and she laughs.

"I'll take that as a no," she says, picking up her cutlery and digging in. They eat in silence for a short while before Hermione breaks it by saying, "You looked like you didn't believe me when I said your drinking didn't bother me."

"Nothing seems to bother you," he replies. "I'm not blind to my flaws, Hermione. I would rather you weren't either. I have a lot of them."

"I've seen enough of you to know you're a better person than your flaws say you are. I also think your flaws aren't as bad as you think they are."

"Only an idiot could romanticise alcoholism, working for a homicidal madman, and turning into a ravaging beast once a month."

"My aunt Heather's been an alcoholic since before I started at Hogwarts, so trust me I'm not about to romanticise alcoholism. But she's never managed to stay sober for more than a month, I don't think, so you being clean for over two years is good. As for being a Death Eater, you turned spy and then you killed Voldemort, and it's not your fault you're a werewolf."

"Regardless, I am one."

"Do you not remember what I did at the Potions Conference?"

"Most of what I remember of that night is painful."

Her gaze flicks briefly to the scars on his neck and lower jaw and he resists the urge to rub at them.

"I sat by your cage and told you that you made a handsome wolf. You snarled at me."

"I don't consider werewolves to be attractive creatures."

"I don't see why not. They're really quite graceful."

"They're slathering beasts intent on destroying any living thing that gets in their path."

"You saved my life."

"I was drugged to retain my mentality; had I not been, I'd have killed you," he retorts, then asks, "Is this an effort to repay the life debt?"

"I don't think dating is a reasonable way to repay a life debt. Do you really find it so hard to believe someone's attracted to you?"

"Why does everyone find that so surprising?" he asks incredulously. "I am not deluded enough to think myself attractive when I'm not."

"You do seem to be deluded enough to think you're completely unlikable."

He shakes his head. "Don't try convincing me otherwise. Oliver's been trying for years and hasn't succeeded; you won't manage it in one night."

"Who's Oliver?"

"Psychiatrist. Have I put you off yet?"

"Are you trying to put me off?"

"I... no," he says. "Not intentionally, at least."

"I didn't think so. Really, Severus, just accept that I like you and enjoy it. I'm not in the habit of wasting my time with people I don't consider worth it. If you do turn out to be so completely unlikeable, I'll let you know."

He frowns. "That... I thought you were a nice woman, Hermione."

She smiles, leaning forward as if imparting a great secret. "As a Slytherin you probably don't realise this, but honesty is a virtue." She sits back again and reaches for her drink. "Really, it would only cause more pain to fake positive feelings where there are none. Tell me how Professor McGonagall reacted to hearing that we were going on a date."

"Much the way I expected: she's convinced I'm a lecherous old man preying on ex-students."

"Did you tell her I asked you out?" she asks, setting her glass down and returning to her food.

"She told me I was old enough to know better and should have said no."

Hermione's cutlery hits her plate with a clatter. "She didn't! That's just insulting! As if I don't know my own mind. I'd have expected better of her," she says, stabbing her fish and lifting it to her mouth, chewing angrily, but when she swallows and next speaks her voice is more hesitant. "Does the age difference bother you?"

"Not so much as other things."

"Other things?" she asks with a hint of wariness.

"My lack of experience with personal relationships, and the flaws in my person we've already discussed."

"Oh. Well if it makes you feel better, I don't have a lot of experience in romantic relationships."

"Do you—" He cuts himself off, frowns, then asks instead, "Is there a... protocol for the acceptable discussion of an individual's dating history with a current date? Are there certain issues that are expected to be left unquestioned and unspoken?"

"The details of... ah... intimacies," she says with a blush, "are inacceptable, obviously, but I think it's commonplace to know numbers."

"Numbers?"

"How many people one's dated in the past. Seriously dated, that is. At least in cases where the individual has a long history of failed, insubstantial first dates. In cases where the individual has a relatively low number of partners then I suppose exact numbers are acceptable and/or expected. I think. I'm not entirely sure to be honest and I think a lot of people lie about it anyway."

"By increasing numbers?"

"For men. For women it's the opposite—decreasing numbers to avoid being considered a—" she puts down her cutlery and lifts her hands to make air quotes "—'slut'. It's such a double standard and it's horrible the way society demonizes women who have and enjoy sex a lot, yet congratulates men who are the same while mocking men who don't express an interest in regular sex. All of it's the result of an oppressive patriarchal society and yet there are people out there that think we've stamped out sexism just because women can vote!" she finishes angrily, then looks down, clenching her hands in her lap and inhaling deeply, letting it out slowly. "Sorry, I didn't mean—"

"It's fine," he interrupts. "You shouldn't apologise. That's more of the same, isn't it? Patriarchy making a woman feel she has to apologise for expressing her opinion where a man wouldn't?"

She looks at him in surprise.

"I had a friend once who said something similar. I didn't listen to her as often as I should have, but I did learn a few things from her."

"Had? Did something happen to her?"

"Voldemort killed her during the first war."

"I'm sorry. She sounds like she was a good woman."

"The best I ever knew," he agrees. "But I probably shouldn't talk like that about another woman while on a date with you. I apologise."

She shakes her head. "I'm not threatened by dead people, even ones you loved."

"That's presumptuous."

"That's obvious to anyone who isn't deaf. What was her name?"

Snape drops his gaze, focusing on his meal. "Lily Evans."

"Harry's mum."

He nods, not looking up.

"Severus, can I ask... is it... weird being magically bound to James Potter given that..."

"That I slept with his wife," he finishes bluntly. "Less weird than being Bound to the man who made my high school years a misery."

"Did he?" she asks, surprised. "Then why did you do it? Or is that why you did it, to take revenge?"

"Harry asked me to, before he went to Azkaban. I offered to take the Bond because of that; James chose to accept it and I considered him a burden. I will admit," he says reluctantly, "that he is less cumbersome than I first thought and he's not the same person he was in Hogwarts."

"I doubt anyone is when they're forty, but especially not after going through what he did."

"Hmm," he agrees vaguely. "I'd rather not discuss James, though."

"What would you like to discuss?"

"You. I don't know half as much about you as you seem to know about me."

"Alright," she agrees with a smile. "Well, you know I work at the Ministry and that is actually most of my life. I'm there six days a week and my best friend works there too, which now that I think about it is a bit sad..."

* * *

There are nails driven into Harry's sides. He lies on the floor, arms trapped above his head, feet tied with rope and charmed down as well because otherwise he kicks at his attacker. Macnair. He hates Macnair. He never uses his wand, not directly at least, just weapons. Knives, needles, hammers, pliers, nails. Nails that have been magically heated before being slowly driven into his skin. They're short, because the Dark Lord forbade them to kill him, and Macnair drives them into his sides, sliding them between his ribs until he can feel them shifting with every sobbing breath he takes.

He feels hot breath on his face and looks through his tears at the broad face in front of him, a thin black moustache topping a sadistic grin, brown eyes gleaming beneath thick eyebrows. A large hand grabs his chin.

"Going to scream for me, worm? I don't get to make things scream normally, working for the Ministry. It's just a quick whack and the stupid animal's dead. Not you, though. You I can make scream. So come on, little worm. Scream."

Sharp hot pain shoots through his chest as another nail sinks into him, but he doesn't scream, just whines and squirms, drawing more pain but unable to stop, squeezing his eyes shut as tears spill down his temples, and desperately, uselessly Wishes he was somewhere—_anywhere_ else.

"Well this is horrible."

Harry opens his eyes. Macnair is gone and an unfamiliar man is in his place, average sized with light brown hair and an American accent.

"W-who are you?" Harry stutters.

"Call me Cyrus. Do you always dream about getting horribly tortured?"

Harry flicks his eyes around the room, over the plain stone walls that make up Lucius Malfoy's hidden cellar, then back at Cyrus. "I'm dreaming?"

"Yeah. I'm actually disappointed," Cyrus says, getting up and stepping away from Harry, who watches the man take a bar of chocolate from his pocket, unwrap it and start eating. "I came all the way to England to see the great and immortal Harry Evans and all I get is a young man in prison who's trapped inside his own nightmares. This is the guy who tricked the King of the Crossroads?" he scoffs, stuffing the last of the chocolate bar into his mouth.

"Who?"

"You know. King of the Crossroads Demons. Goes by Crowley."

Harry scrambles to his feet, not even noticing the nails vanishing from his sides and the clothes magicking into existence upon him. The room around him fades away to instead surround him with the Hogwarts Great Hall.

"That's the demon I sold my soul to," he says, then shakes his head, frowning. "That Mum says I sold my soul to," he corrects, looking uncertain. Cyrus cocks his head. Harry looks at him. "How do you know about that?"

"I know everything."

Harry narrows his gaze at him. Cyrus takes another chocolate bar from his pocket and starts eating that too.

"You're not real."

Cyrus looks affronted. "Not real? How can you say that?"

"I'm dreaming. You're not real, you're just my imagination. That's why you know about my—about the story where I made a deal, because I know about it."

"Ohh, you want proof that I'm not a figment of your imagination. Well sure, why didn't you say so?" He stuffs the chocolate in his mouth, chews, swallows, then smirks at Harry. "But first, you have to wake up," he says, then lifts a hand and snaps his fingers

* * *

**Elsewhere**

Harry sits up with a gasp, drenched in sweat and breathing fast. Beside him Draco rolls over and blinks his eyes open, looking up at him blearily.

"You alright?"

Harry swallows, rubbing a hand over his side to assure himself there are no nails stuck in him, and nods. "Nightmare."

Draco sits up, pushing back the hair flopping into his face, and looks at Harry with concern. "What about?"

"Being tortured."

Draco scowls. "That stuff your mum talks about again? You have to make her stop, Harry."

"It was different this time," Harry says, ignoring his comment. "There was someone else."

"It was a just a dream, Harry," Draco tells him firmly. "It's not real. None of it's real."

"Oh it's real," an American voice says. Both men scramble out of the bed as a figure appears opposite them, mouth curled into a smirk.

"Who the hell are you?" Draco demands, grabbing his wand from beside the bed and pointing it at the man. Harry just stares.

"Cyrus. Pleasure to meet you. Of course, Harry and I have already met."

Draco glances at Harry, who doesn't take his eyes from Cyrus, his face pale. "Harry?"

"He was in my dream," Harry whispers. "He was—you said I was in prison."

"You are."

Harry shakes his head. Draco's hand tightens on his wand. "Get out of our house before I hex you to smithereens."

"You're in prison, Harry Evans. This place—this isn't reality. Blondie here is lying to you."

Draco snarls a curse, but it does nothing when it hits Cyrus, who smirks at him before returning his attention to Harry.

"I happen to know that the prison warden has a deal with the cook to drug your food with a sedative to keep you calm and untroublesome, which probably doesn't help your grasp on reality. They're all so scared of you, but I'd really like to see why. So here's what I'm gonna do—I'll deal with the warden and his cook, you can detox and get back in touch with reality, and then we'll see if you're really worth all that hatred I hear Crowley has for you."

He smirks again, lifts his hand, and clicks his fingers then vanishes. Draco lowers his wand, moving around the bed and reaching out to pull Harry into a hug, only for him to jerk away.

"Harry, that man lied. This is real."

Harry looks at him with eyes that seem dull and empty and the shadow of scars flicker on his face. "I need Remus."

"What for?"

"_I need Remus!_" he yells, making Draco jump.

"Alright. I'll get him, Harry," Draco says soothingly. "Just calm down. That man was lying."

Harry doesn't reply, just backs himself against the wall and stares at the floor, hands clenched in fists at his sides. Draco approaches him, wanting to comfort him, but Harry tenses and he backs off again, heart twisting in his chest.

He floos calls Sirius and Lupin's house and both men come through, expressions concerned as they follow Draco to the bedroom. Harry hasn't moved from his spot, but his eyes flick up when Sirius and Lupin enter and fix on the werewolf.

"Is it true?" he demands.

"If you're talking about everything Lily tells you, no," Lupin answers calmly.

"There was a man," Harry begins. Lupin nods, approaching him slowly.

"Draco told me. He came from your dream?"

Harry hesitates. "He was in it," he says slowly.

"It was just a dream, Harry. It's not real."

"Draco saw him too. He was here."

"He was a projection," Lupin explains. Lying has always been a skill of his; he was the one who most often came up with convincing stories to explain Marauder antics to keep them out of trouble, and his kind face helped people believe him. It was years before the teachers started to suspect he could be as bad as James and Sirius, but Harry doesn't have that experience and he's willing to believe what Lupin says. "You had a bad dream and when you woke up, your mind was still half asleep and just projected some of your dream, that's all."

"I'm not in Azkaban?"

"No. You're at home, with Draco, where you should be."

Harry's eyes flick to Draco and the dullness disappears briefly, the scars on his skin fading, but then he looks back at Lupin and says in a quietly accusing tone, "I heard you. When I became an Animagus. You said that Riddle's possession of me might be reason I couldn't do it before. But that didn't happen."

"Of course not," Lupin agrees. "You were never possessed. You misheard me, Harry. I merely said that it would be a plausible reason Lily could use for her story should she decide to write you in as an Animagus. But none of that is real. It's just a story."

Harry glances hesitantly at each of them then the tension eases from his muscles and he steps away from the wall. Draco stalks forwards and wraps him in a hug that Harry returns after a moment's pause, clinging to Draco tightly and burying his face in Draco's shoulder.

"I am real," Draco whispers. "It all is."

Harry nods and hugs him closer.

* * *

"Wait!"

Snape draws back, trying not to let his disappointment show. He half expects this from the moment Hermione invited him back to her flat after they ate. It was one thing for her to convince herself she was attracted to him when all they did was share conversation, but when it actually comes to getting him into her bed it's no surprise she's changing her mind. He's surprised enough when she kisses him, and then deepens the kiss, crawls into his lap, and manages to—as he once heard it put—snog his brains out until he isn't entirely sure how they end up in her bed. Had he thought about it before, he never would have expected such forwardness from the prim and proper Hermione Granger, and he's surprised by how much he likes it. He wonders what put her off now—his physique, the sudden remembrance that he's a werewolf and thus not someone anyone would want to have sex with even if he was better looking, his age, or something else entirely.

"Contraceptive Charm."

Snape blinks. "What?"

"Contraceptive Charm. I got pregnant the last time I had sex with a man; I'd rather it didn't happen again."

"You... haven't changed your mind?"

"Did you expect me to? At _this_ point?" she says, gesturing vaguely at their nakedness, a slight blush rising in her cheeks.

Deciding it's best not to answer that, he says instead, "I don't know it. The charm."

She reaches over and snatches the wand from beside her bed, giving it a short, sharp flick and murmuring an incantation. Snape jerks and lets out a startled noise that reminds him uncomfortably of a wolf's yelp.

"Sorry, did that feel weird?" she asks, returning the wand to its spot.

"Uh... warm. But unexpected. I suppose I assumed it would be done on you."

"Better an unloaded gun than a bullet proof shield."

"Did you just refer to my penis as a gun?" he asks, then jerks upright. "What do you mean 'unloaded'? How exactly does that spell work?"

"It make your sperm temporarily inactive," she says. "Completely temporary, there are no negative side effects or lasting consequences, and it wears off in about six hours. And I could come up with worse euphemisms," she tells him, pulling him down to kiss her.

*PSM*

"What's wrong?"

Snape opens his eyes and turns his head to look at Hermione. "Nothing."

She worries at her lower lip then turns onto her side, pillowing her hands under her head. "It was good, if that's what you're worried about. I orgasmed."

"I appreciate the reassurance, but as I said, nothing's wrong."

"Then why are you so tense? You have been since we finished and people generally relax after sex. Was it not good for you?"

"I enjoyed it."

"But?"

He turns his head away to stare at the ceiling. "I'm waiting for you to tell me it was a mistake and kick me out."

She gets up on her elbow and frowns down at him. "Why would I do that? I already told you it was enjoyable, so I don't... oh. Someone did that to you before, didn't they?"

Snape's tense jaw and refusal to meet her eyes says everything.

"Well I'm not," Hermione says firmly. "In fact, barring an emergency I fully expect you to be here all night."

Snape's gaze flicks to hers and she holds it until some of the tension eases out of his body then she ducks her head and presses a kiss to his lips before settling down against his side.

*PSM*

The next morning Snape sits at Hermione's kitchen table, sipping at his coffee and watching the clock. It's still early and he's left Hermione asleep in bed, needing some space and coffee to think about the night before.

He's smugly proud of his self control. He hasn't had sex in twenty-five years, but he managed to avoid embarrassing himself by orgasming early. Better still, he made Hermione orgasm, which he knows to be more difficult. At least, that's what he's overheard throughout the years from female staff members and older students at Hogwarts. Given his inexperience with the opposite sex and his knowledge that males like to lie to make themselves sound better, he's inclined to believe that over the stories from bragging male students who claim to have made their girlfriends orgasm five times in a single bedding.

What he's less pleased with is the new feeling of possessiveness that he found when he woke up. He doesn't want to be possessive. Time has made him realise that what he felt for Lily was obsessive, and that Lily was probably right all the times they fought and she called him possessive. While he knows he won't call Hermione a Mudblood—he hasn't used the word in fifteen years; he won't now—he doesn't want his relationship with her to end as badly as his relationship with Lily did. He's just not sure how to deal with the urge he has to mark her as his own so everyone knows she's off limits.

He shakes the thoughts off just as the clock ticks around to seven forty-two and he lifts his mug in a salute towards it.

"Happy birthday to me," he murmurs.

"It's your birthday?"

He looks around to see Hermione walk in, clad in a nightie and dressing gown, yawning and running a hand over frizzy hair.

"Forty-five as of this moment," he says, watching closely for any flinch at the mention of his age. There is none.

"Then happy birthday," she says, bending to press a kiss to his cheek before dropping into another chair and calling for Dobby to make her a cup of coffee. "I'd give you more but my breath is disgusting. When are planning to go back to Hogwarts? Start of term tomorrow, isn't it?"

"Yes. I will leave whenever you want to kick me out."

"I'm not going to kick you out," she says with a frown. "You can stay until I have to leave at eleven to go have lunch with my parents."

Snape nods and lifts his mug, sipping coffee and debating whether to ask about her parents. Specifically, about their ages. He's fairly certain from her photographs that they're older than he is, but he'd like confirmation nonetheless.

"I'm, uh..." Hermione begins, and Snape stiffens slightly, wary despite her reassurance last night and her claim a moment ago to not kick him out. "I'm not going to mention you to them. Yet. They're older than you, but I'm not sure they'll really be comfortable with me dating someone your age, so I'm going to wait a little bit."

Snape nods, relaxing at the confirmation of their older age and agreeing with her decision not to mention their relationship.

*PSM*

James finds Snape in his office shortly after lunch that day and leans against the door after shutting it, watching the other man stand in the middle of the room and draw light patterns in the air with his wand, a simple spell that's one of the ones Snape was told to practice to exercise his wrist tendons.

"Did you want something?" Snape asks without stopping his casting.

"We need to talk."

"Are you breaking up with me?"

James presses a hand to his chest in mock surprise. "Severus Snape, did you just make a joke?"

"What do you want, James?"

James drops his hand. "Have you forgotten that you can use Occlumency to block the emotional aspects of the Bond?"

Snape freezes with his back to James. The lights fade away and Snape slowly lowers his wand.

"It slips my mind occasionally," he murmurs.

"Maybe try and remember it the next time you hook up with your lady friend. I know a little more about last night than I want to."

Snape nods stiffly. "My apologies."

"You going to tell me her name?

"No," Snape answers curtly. "If you don't mind, I'm busy."

*PSM*

"How long have they been like this?"

Annabeth takes her eyes from the comatose forms of Brooklyn Hopkins and Wilfred Melville, the prison cook, to look at Cyrus, who was with her when she found them, and the healer who's talking to him. The newest guard is unconcernedly eating a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans and watching a second healer inspect the two comatose figures.

"We found them about fifteen minutes ago," Cyrus answers. "Who knows how long they were like that before then."

The healer crouched by Brooklyn sighs and straightens up. "Well, we're going to have to take them into Saint Mungo's, find out what's going on with them and what may have caused this. Octavia will stay for a minute to ask you a few questions about them both and if you could provide next of kin information so we can contact their families, that would be appreciated. Octavia, don't forget to bag these drinks for poison testing."

Octavia nods and takes a notepad and pen from her pocket, turning to Annabeth to take down the addresses of Brooklyn and Wilfred's families, while the second healer conjures stretchers to move the two comatose figures onto.

Half an hour later, warden and cook are gone and Annabeth stands in the guardroom, facing the collected on-duty guards.

"I'm now acting warden," she tells them all, "and will be until we know what's happening with Brooklyn. Ellie Mavin will be taking over cook's duties; I've flooed her and she should be in shortly, but I need you to inform the prisoners their lunch is going to be late. If anyone complains tell them they're welcome to eat their shit if they're that hungry. For now, everyone's to carry on with their regular duties and I will inform you when I know what's happened to Brooklyn and Wilfred."

* * *

**Elsewhere**

Lily's surprised to find Padfoot outside Harry's house when she arrives on the second to last day of January, lying on the front doorstep. He transforms into Sirius as she approaches, sticking his hands in his pockets and standing in front of the door.

"Sirius," she greets.

"Lils. Happy birthday."

"Thank you. Can I go inside?"

"Remus and Draco are trying to convince Harry this is reality," he says instead of answering. Lily's eyes widen.

"He's doubting it?"

Sirius nods. "A few weeks back, a man appeared here during the night and told Harry that this wasn't real. Draco called Remus and me, and Harry said he heard Remus mention the Voldemort possession, which along with this man made him doubt it. Remus convinced him the man was just a projection of his dream, but a week ago people started flicking in and out of existence and Harry kept looking at us suspiciously, but he wouldn't say anything. Now he's convinced himself it's not real, but I think he wants to hear it from you one last time before he really believes it."

"Are you going to try and stop me?" she asks him, prepared to fight if he does, but Sirius shakes his head.

"I think it's too late. The doubt is already there. He's not going to fully believe it again and he could drive himself to madness with that doubt. More madness," he elaborates at her pointed look. "The kind where he questions reality as much as he questions this place and can't decide what is and isn't real. I just thought you should know what caused it."

"Thank you. Though I'm irritated that seven years trying to convince him isn't as effective as a stranger. This man—he was real?"

"Yes. Draco swears it. But a stranger might be what Harry needed, someone other than you to confirm the story and who has no apparent connection to you."

"Perhaps," she murmurs, more concerned with who or what the stranger might be. Other than reapers, there aren't many beings that can cross between worlds with ease. That besides, the higher tier supernatural beings aware of Elsewhere are in agreement to avoid it entirely for fear of alerting Harry that it's a real place. They're scared by his power and what he might do if he realises the true extent of it.

Sirius steps aside to let Lily open the door and enter the house. Inside she finds Harry standing in the middle of the room, hands clamped over his ears to block out Lupin and Draco's attempts to convince him of what's real. But when Lily enters he instantly drops his hands and lunges at her, fisting his hands in her jacket, his tear-filled eyes dull as he stares at her, while runic scars flick in and out of appearance on his skin.

"Tell me it's not true!" he demands. "The story about everyone dying and me in prison—you made it up! Tell me you made it up!"

"Harry—" Draco tries, looking almost as distressed as Harry, but Harry ignores him, shrugging him off when Draco tries to pull him away from Lily.

"Tell me! Say it's not true!"

"No," she answers softly but firmly. "I won't, Harry. It _is_ true."

His eyes close and tears spill down his cheeks. Draco turns away with tears in his own eyes, while Lupin looks at Lily with the unfriendliest expression she's ever seen on his face, and Sirius merely looks resigned.

Harry lets go of Lily's jacket and drops to his knees, pressing his forehead to the floor and tangling his hands in his hair. Every bared bit of skin is covered in scars now and she suspects that his eyes are completely unfocused and blind. She kneels before him, laying her hands over his own only for him to flinch at the touch.

"Harry, look at me, sweetheart."

He shakes his head. "You're not real."

"Harry, we are!" Draco cries, spinning around and moving to drop down beside Harry and rest a hand on his back. "We are real!"

"You're not. You're all in my head and you're just saying that because I don't want to admit you're dead and lose you."

"Then don't. Just stay here, Harry. You don't have to go back to Azkaban. You're happy here."

"But it's not real," Harry whispers. "You're dead. You're all dead."

"That doesn't mean we're not real!" Draco insists. "This place is real; it's not in your head, Harry. You made it and brought our spirits here. You brought _me_ here, to be with you, like we should be. You're going to spend the rest of your life in Azkaban; you might as well let your soul stay here and be happy for that time."

Harry's hands tighten in his hair and the scars briefly disappear, and hope shines in Draco's eyes, until Lily counters, "You need to return to reality, Harry. You can't spend the rest of your life pretending that the first seventeen years didn't happen as they did."

"That doesn't mean you have to leave. You can accept that, but it doesn't mean you have to leave. You can stay here. With _me._"

"No," Harry says quietly. His hands slip from his hair and he sits up, unfocused eyes staring in front of him, face marred by scars. Tears glisten in his left eye but the right, the one damaged more severely, is dry, and his expression is despairing, but when he speaks his tone is firm. "You're not real. None of you are real and I can't forget that again. You're dead," he finishes in a whisper. "You're dead."

And he vanishes.


	10. Winter, Part 3

**Winter, Part 3**

Lucius pays attention when he hears a cell door sliding opening. It's not often someone on Dead Block gets let out of their cell; only serious medical emergencies and court appearances are reason enough to let the most dangerous prisoners out. Supposedly, at least. There's never been a medical emergency or court case in the seven years since Dead Block was created; by the time a prisoner reaches Dead Block, their fate is already decided. The only time Lucius has ever heard a cell open is when six former Death Eater killed themselves, all by stabbing cutlery through their eyes. Common belief is that Harry's responsible, though there's no proof. Lucius doesn't doubt it; every one of them had tortured Harry at some point during his imprisonment in Malfoy Manor.

But the most curious thing about hearing cells bars sliding open is that he hasn't heard the block door open and a guard come through first.

Lucius sets down his book—he's never really been the sort of person who reads for pleasure, but it's the only thing he has to do in Azkaban—and sits up, swinging his legs around to set his feet on the floor and turning to look out the bars. He can hear the other prisoners moving about, the conversation between Andrew Caine and Thomas Teirnan trailing off as they realise something's going on.

"Who is that?" JD Leziate calls from the centre cell.

"Evans," Cassie Derrick answers from the cell on Lucius' other side. "He's let himself out."

His words cause a torrent of movement as everyone save Lucius gets up to approach the bars of their own cell, trying to peer out. Lucius doesn't need to; Harry is already standing outside his cell, both hands pressing against the bars to guide himself.

"You breaking out, Evans?" Cassie calls. Harry doesn't answer him. His face looks into Lucius' cell, though his blind eyes seem to stare at the wall.

"Lucius?"

"What do you want, Evans?"

"Where am I?"

"Is that a joke? You're in the same place you've been since you got us both thrown in this prison."

"In Azkaban?"

"Yes, in Azkaban, you idiot."

Harry doesn't react to the insult. He looks away and begins shuffling along the block. Despite himself, Lucius gets up to look out and watch Harry move on until he stops outside of Cassie's cell.

"Gonna take me with you, Evans?"

"Are you Cassandra Derrick?"

"It's Cassie," he replies, and Lucius can hear the scowl in his voice. "Seven years of being neighbours and you haven't realised that yet?"

As with Lucius, Harry ignores him and moves on. This time he doesn't stop until he reaches the end and asks if the occupant's name is Emmett Moon. Emmett confirms it with a grunt, and Harry heads back two cells.

"My name's Jason Gibbons," the occupant says before Harry can ask anything. "Anything else you need, Evans?"

"Do you start fires?"

"Not since they moved me here. Why? You fancy starting one for me?"

Harry doesn't answer. He walks back to his own cell, trailing his hands along the wall to guide himself back. There's no accompanying sound of his bars sliding shut, but Lucius hears him drop to the floor and say quietly, "It's real."

"That wasn't random at all," Jason mutters from his own cell while everyone returns to what they were doing before. "Might have done something more interesting though. Spice things up around here."

"Hang yourself," suggests Charles Whitman three cells up from him. "That'll spice things up."

"Go fuck yourself, Whitman."

"It's all real," Lucius hears Harry say again, sounding on the verge of tears now. "It's real. He's dead."

Then each prisoner's candle and the torches on the wall outside the cells flare. Jason gives a delighted shout and Emmett emits a startled squeak then a scared cry as the entire prison starts to tremble around them. Lucius sighs and returns to his bed. It's not the first time Harry's done this; it's a regular occurrence at night when his magic lashes out during nightmares to make the whole prison shake.

"Oh, come on!" Cassie shouts. "It's nine o'clock in the morning, Evans! Give it a break!"

Harry's only response is to wail like someone's tearing his heart out of his chest with their bare hands.

* * *

**Elsewhere**

"We're still here," Sirius points out somewhat unnecessarily. Lily gets to her feet. Draco stays on the floor, staring at the spot where Harry was a moment before.

"He thinks it's in his head," Lily says. "He hasn't realised it's a real place and it won't just vanish because he stops believing in it. It would take an active effort on Harry's part to return you to where you came from and to destroy this universe." Although she's answering Sirius' statement, her gaze is on Lupin as she speaks. "You can stay here. Together."

The unfriendliness fades from Lupin's face and he even manages a thin smile.

"What's the point?" Draco asks hollowly. "Without Harry, what's the point in staying?"

Lily crouches again, unmoved by the anger in his gaze. "You don't have to," she tells him. "I am a reaper so I'm capable of moving you. I can return you to heaven, where you're supposed to be. But once I take you, that's it. You have to decide. Either you stay here, or you go on, but once you've moved on, there's no coming back."

"Do I have to decide right now?"

"No. I'm going to earth to see Harry, but I'll come back tonight before I go back on duty. But if you decide to stay here, that's not necessarily permanent. I can take you on at any point; I just can't bring you back."

He nods and gets to his feet. "I need to think," he says and without looking at her or anyone else, walks to the door and leaves. Lily rises as well and turns her attention to Sirius and Lupin.

"I assume you'll both be staying here."

They agree without hesitation, which she expects. Lupin would never want to return to purgatory and she knows Sirius would rather remain with Lupin than return to heaven.

"You'll probably find the people have all disappeared," she tells them. "Animals as well, but everything non-sentient should remain. I'm not sure how much the seasons will change and the trees will grow, or even if anything will change from what it is now. This world may exist, but it's still a world of souls and powered mostly by Harry's magic."

"So we might be stuck in a constant rainy Sunday morning?" Sirius asks.

"Possibly. There's really no telling. I'll see you both tonight."

* * *

Cyrus strolls down Dead Block, eating a Liquorice Wand and eventually coming to a stop beside the red-haired woman standing in front of Harry's cell, arms folded over her chest as she looks inside. Harry is collapsed on the floor, his purple teddy bear Kiwi clutched in his arms and dried tears trails on his left cheek. For a short while the two just look in at the young man, then Lily says without taking her eyes from Harry, "Never in seven years have I doubted the desire to bring my son back to reality more than I do now."

"There's a price for everything."

Lily glances at him, running her gaze over him, eyes lingering on the sweet he's eating before flicking to meet his own eyes. "Trickster?"

"Yep," Cyrus confirms.

"I thought your kind preferred ironic justice. What are you doing in prison?"

"What's more ironic than punishing a man who's already being punished? They're the ones that least expect it."

"I take it you're the one who visited Elsewhere a few weeks ago and did what I couldn't in seven years."

Cyrus turns to look at her. "Elsewhere?"

She shrugs. "I have to call it something."

"Very true. He needed an outsiders influence and I wanted to see what all the fuss is about the great Harry Evans. Heaven and hell are both up in arms about how powerful he is, the 'potential threat' he presents, but no one seems to have the nerve to do anything about him despite the fact that while he was in Elsewhere, he was about as threatening as an ant."

"So you encouraged him back to reality to... what? Stir things up?"

He grins. "Trickster," he reminds her. "We live to stir things up."

"Indeed," Lily says, looking back at Harry. "Well you may be horribly disappointed. He may be back in reality, but I don't think my son will be stirring anything up anytime soon."

* * *

Draco decides to stay in Elsewhere. It's familiar, heaven is actually rather lonely according to Sirius, and silently Draco hopes that one day Harry will return.

* * *

Snape's preparing a test for his first years when Michaela Creevey comes to see him on the 3rd of February. She skived off one of his classes a week ago, claiming through a friend to have been in the Hospital Wing. He checked, and she wasn't, but when she arrived for the detention Snape assigned she looked obviously ill, and doesn't seem to have recovered much since. She's lost weight since the start of the year and there are heavy shadows under her eyes.

"What is it, Creevey? Your curfew is in fifteen minutes."

She drops into the chair opposite his desk. "Professor, can I ask you something?"

"If I say no, will that stop you?"

"Probably not," she admits.

"Then try and make it quick."

"Did you stop drinking before or after you became a werewolf?"

Snape lays down his quill. "Before."

"No quick clean route, then."

He frowns at her. "Miss Creevey, are you—"

"Drunk? No. I haven't drunk a drop of alcohol since the start of the year." She smiles at him but it doesn't reach her eyes. "You made your point with that detention you gave me and I'm not an idiot, professor. I had a problem, I'll admit it, but I stopped."

"What about the reason for the drinking? If you don't deal with that, you won't be able to stay sober," he tells her.

She rubs at her eyes. "There's nothing I can do. My brain just never _shuts up_," she says angrily. "You know, people hear I'm a genius and they think it's all great. Solving complex maths equations in my head, absorbing anything I read like a human knowledge sponge, noticing things that everyone else overlooks and putting it together like modern day Sherlock Holmes. You know I finished my A Levels before I came here? My parents wanted me to go on to university—at eleven years old!—but I knew I would go to Hogwarts ever since I was four. I turned our dog into a cat, and since I was eight I desperately wanted to study magic because I finally thought I'd found something that would _challenge_ me. I read all Colin's textbooks years before I got my letter."

She pauses and picks at her nails, glaring at her hands like they've personally affronted her. "It's just the same though. All the theory is as easy as Muggle subjects and when you understand the theory most of the practical magic comes pretty easily. I thought the magic might be an outlet. Something to tax my brain, but it doesn't. I still notice _everything_ and my brain just won't shut up and be quiet."

"So you drank to find some peace."

She nods.

"I won't claim to understand what it's like to have that level of genius, but I understand wanting to silence the mind." He rests his arms on the desk and leans forward slightly. "But drink is a demon that comes with its own problems."

"I know. I realised that. I found a copy of _A Wizard's Guide to Addiction_ and read the whole thing after that detention. I just..." She trails off with a sigh, then says, "I just wish I could shut my head up."

"Have you considered psychiatric help? There may be ways to help you deal with your problem."

"Doubtful. I've read psychology texts. I've never found anything that helped. Professor... how do you do it? How do you go each day without drinking and not get overwhelmed by what's inside your head?"

"I talk to a psychiatrist and remind myself of what I did when I was drunk."

"What did you do?"

"That," he says curtly, "is not your concern, Miss Creevey."

"Right. Sorry."

He leans back in his chair, looking her over as she rubs at her eyes again. "Miss Creevey, I am not specialised enough to help you with this. If you want aid, you will have to seek professional assistance. All I can do is help you get that."

She nods.

"Is there—"

"Sir, I—" she interrupts only to cut herself off. She looks at him, down at her hands, then gets to her feet. "I should get back to Ravenclaw. Thank you for talking to me, professor."

"Creevey."

She pauses and he gets to his feet as well. He's never been a tall man, but he's always been able to loom over people anyway and Michaela is shorter than him to make it particularly effective. "I expect your knowledge of my personal issues to remain inside that busy brain of yours."

"Of course, professor. Good night."

She walks out and he watches her go, making a mental note to talk to Flitwick about her the next day and to keep a very close eye on her and an ear open to student gossip.

*PSM*

Lucius stares at the boy—man, if he's honest—sat on the floor of his cell and silently mourns the fact that the man can't see Lucius' disdainful expression. He settles for expressing himself with a sharp tone instead.

"What are you doing in here, Evans?"

Harry looks at him. Or rather, tilts his face up towards him, eyes unfocused and staring somewhere past Lucius' left ear. He sits crossed legged with his purple teddy bear in his lap, which doesn't help Lucius think of him as an adult, nor does the fact that he appears to have barely changed in the last seven years. Lucius hasn't seen Harry since they were moved to Dead Block, save for the brief look at him a few days ago, but he doesn't appear to have grown at all, still the small, too thin figure that was possessed by Riddle, and his hair still hangs to the nape of his neck, although Lucius knows that the prison hairdresser is too scared to go near Harry. Lucius' own hairs hang well past his waist as he refuses to let some amateur anywhere near his hair with a Cutting Charm.

"I was alone."

"You've been alone for the past seven years. I don't see why you feel the need to change that. Get out."

"I wasn't here."

"You most certainly were. I've had to listen to you screaming almost nightly for years and set the prison shaking."

Harry frowns at him. "What are you talking about?"

"You know perfectly well what I'm talking about: your awful habit of causing localised earthquakes."

"I don't... I do that?"

Lucius' lip curls into a sneer. "How selfish of you. You bring fear and irritation to people and don't even notice it yourself."

"I didn't know."

"Yes," Lucius drawls, "that seems to be the problem. Get out of my cell, Evans. I'm not interested in you or anything you have to say."

"I don't want to be alone."

"You're welcome to come share with me!" calls Andrew Caine from further down the block. "As long as you suck my—ack!"

"Andy?" Thomas Tiernan's concerned voice says. "You alright?"

Andrew's only response is to crow like a cockerel.

"Merlin's underpants, did you turn him into a cock, Evans?" Thomas calls.

"Fitting," Cassie remarks carelessly. "He's about as intelligent as one."

"I don't want to be alone," Harry says to Lucius, ignoring the others. "Not like before. I'll go mad."

"You wouldn't be the first and I don't care. I have no desire to lose what little space and privacy this box of a cell provides me."

Harry doesn't answer, but he shifts slightly and then the wall between Lucius' cell and Harry's disappears. There's some clatter as Harry's bunk and the tub holding his spare prison robes shift to the far wall, putting more space in the middle of the cell.

"What about now?"

"Which part of 'I don't want to share with you' doesn't penetrate that thick skull of yours, Evans?"

Harry frowns, and then Lucius leaps up as the bed under him shifts. He watches it turn from a hard metal bunk into a four foot wide bed with a thick mattress, two feather pillows, and an actual duvet instead of the miserably thin blankets the prison issues them with. He sits on it again and almost groans in appreciation.

"A rug," he demands. One appears underfoot, thick, fluffy, and soft to the touch when he bends to brush his fingers over it. Impressed but not about to show it, he speaks to Harry sharply. "This doesn't mean I want you in my cell, Evans."

"I'm staying anyway," Harry replies simply, then to Lucius' surprise he turns into a dark-furred fox, picks up the teddy bear between his jaws, and turns away to jump up onto his own bunk.

*PSM*

James stalks into Snape's room, shoves aside the books on Snape's bed, eliciting an annoyed scowl, and sits crossed legged on the end, facing Snape.

"We need to talk."

"About?"

"Your girlfriend and me."

"I fail to see any connection between the two."

James leans forward, hands planted on the bed to keep himself steady as he glares at Snape. "That's because once again you've forgotten that _every fucking thing_ you do affects me."

"I have been Occluding—"

"That isn't the issue," he interrupts, waving a dismissive hand.

"Then what is the issue, James?"

James folds his arms over his chest, glowering and looking for all the world like a sulky child, and says petulantly, "Just for the record, I've discussed this with Ryma. I didn't even want to bring it up with you but she said I had to or it would get worse, and it did, so now I'm telling you."

"Telling me what?"

James glares at the books on the bed between them and mutters, "I'm jealous."

Snape raises an eyebrow. "You're jealous? James, you've got Narcissa. Or is she not satisfying you in the bedroom and that's the problem?"

"No, that's not the problem," James snaps. "I'm not jealous that you have a girlfriend; I'm jealous that she's taking away your attention."

Snape's look of incredulity only increases, but before he can say anything James gets up and starts pacing the room.

"I know, alright? I know it's ridiculous, but I can't help it. It's this stupid fucking Bond and I've tried ignoring it, but every time you go and see her I get the stupid urge to do something idiotic just to make you stay. And while I freely admit that I can be an attention whore sometimes, I know that hurting myself is a whole different level of attention seeking to pulling elaborate pranks."

"Did you mention that to Ryma?" Snape asks, incredulity faded to barely visible concern.

"No."

"You should."

"I know. It's just fucking stupid," he mutters.

Snape frowns. "I don't know what you expect me to do. I'm not going to stop seeing her just because of your jealousy issues."

"Introduce me," James suggests, returning to sit on the bed. "Maybe—"

"No."

"But—"

"_No_," Snape repeats. "I'm not letting you expel your jealousy on her."

"I wouldn't."

"Can you be sure of that?" Snape asks. "As you said, this is the woman who's 'stealing my attention'. Why wouldn't you make efforts to irritate her to the point she decides I'm not worth seeing anymore? I will _not_ let that happen."

"It _wouldn't_," James insists, leaning forwards like proximity will convince Snape. "She makes you happy, I can see that. Your general mood has never been this good in the entire time I've been Bound to you. If anything I'd make efforts to get her to like me because she's important to you, and maybe once I got to know her I wouldn't mind so much."

"Maybe," Snape emphasizes.

"Never know until you introduce us."

"No."

"Why not? Are you embarrassed of her or something? Why won't you even tell me her name?"

"Because she's _mine_ and I am neither obligated nor inclined to share her with you or anyone else."

James sits back. "Wow. And I thought my jealousy was bad."

"I'm not jealous," Snape spits.

"Possessive, then. And that's dangerous, Severus. You can ruin a relationship with that. Does she know you don't want her interacting with anyone except yourself?"

"That's not—I don't want that."

"Sounded like it. 'I am neither obligated nor inclined to share her with you or anyone else.' Sounds like you don't want her talking to other people. Have you met any of her friends yet? Because I've got a feeling you're going to like exactly none of them."

"I'm not required to like her friends."

"No, but are you going to dislike them to the point of encouraging her to not spend time with them?"

"Of course not."

James gives him a sceptical look but drops the subject. "Introduce me, Severus. You could always bring her on a double date with Narcissa and me."

Snape laughs dryly. "That wouldn't go well. She's Muggleborn."

"Fine. I still want you to introduce me."

"No. I will introduce you as and when I please, not because the Bond is forcing me to."

James gets up and storms out. Snape returns to his books, but two minutes later James is back, his bedding and one of the sofa cushions floating behind him. He transfigures the sofa cushion into a bed he places a foot from Snape's, then sets up his bedding on it and climbs in, all without a word.

"I hope you realise how childish you're being."

"I hope you realise that I never wanted this stupid Bond and it's not my fault that I react unnaturally to normal situations. I also hope you realise I've got no intention of going back to my bedroom any time soon."

"Child."

"Git. What are you reading?"

"Biology."

"For your werewolf research? How's that going?"

"It would go better if I wasn't interrupted."

James huffs, but says nothing more.

*PSM*

"What in Merlin's name...?"

Annabeth, Dayton, and Cyrus stand outside of Lucius and Harry's combined cell, looking in with expressions of resignation, disbelief, and amusement respectively. Lucius, lounging on his delightfully comfy bed, ignores them.

"Where the hell is Evans?" Annabeth asks.

"Anna?" Dayton says. "I think..."

Annabeth follows his line of sight to the fox curled around a purple teddy bear at the foot of Lucius' bed, and blinks.

"What's protocol for registering criminal Animagi?"

"There isn't one," Annabeth answers dryly. "Put this cell back to normal and turn back into a human, Evans, then get in your own cell."

Nothing happens. Annabeth draws her wand, but when she taps it to the bars and mutters the spell to make them open, they don't move. She frowns, tries again, but it still doesn't work and neither do her attempts to return the cell to normal.

"Evans, you can't do this. You're in prison to be punished, not to lounge in comfort. Change everything back and let us open the bars."

Harry does nothing.

"I don't think we'll have any luck, Anna," Dayton remarks. "As long as he stays in the prison, we're probably best to just leave it. No telling what he might do if we keep trying," he adds in a mutter. Annabeth scowls, not pleased to be giving into the whims of a prisoner but forced to agree with Dayton. Harry has powers they can't hope to match.

*PSM*

Enfys gets up from zir desk and moves to stand over Hermione's, smirking at the blush filling her cheeks as she inspects the basket of flowers that's just been delivered to her desk.

"Not much of a traditionalist, your pet werewolf," Enfys remarks.

"I wish you wouldn't call him that."

"Sorry. But really—not a single rose on Valentine's Day?"

"Roses would be lies," she replies then, at zir confused expression, elaborates, "Flowers talk. Roses, red roses in particular, say love."

"Alright, what does this lot say then?" Enfys asks with a gesture at the basket. "Is that mistletoe? Wrong time of year for that, isn't it?"

"If I remember correctly, mistletoe means 'kiss me' and affection, but also difficulties."

"Sound about right for him. What's that one?"

"Hawthorne, I think. Hope. And that's morning glory, which is affection."

"Must have a lot of affection for you if he needed two plants to say it."

"Actually, I think the morning glory is a request for affection," she counters. "See how he used dark pink hawthorn to make it coloured like the morning glory instead of white to match the mistletoe berries? The mistletoe is his affection for me; the hawthorn and morning glory is hope that I'll return it."

"We all know the answer to that," Enfys replies, making her blush deeper. "Are you sending him a basket of flowers in return then? Or just going to invite him over and shag him tonight?"

"At least I have the chance to get laid tonight."

"Oh, you wound me, Hermione," zie moans, clutching both hands dramatically to zir chest. "But as it so happens, I'm thinking of asking out Melissa Connolly."

Hermione thinks for a minute, then asks, "From Sports and Games? The one obsessed with Quidditch and never stops talking about Ginny Weasley?"

"Yup, and I have tickets to the Harpies next game. I figure we go, get drinks afterwards to discuss the illustrious Miss Weasley's game play, then go back to my place and have hot, wild sex."

"Assuming she fancies you."

Enfys scoffs, turning back towards zir own desk and patting zir trouser clad butt as zie goes. "Who wouldn't fancy this?"

*PSM*

If James ever thought about it, he would assume that he'd hate to be dominated in the bedroom. Spending half his life as an unwilling slave and knowing he'll spend the rest of it similarly enslaved, even if his Master doesn't give orders, should make him hateful towards other forms of dominance over him. But whether it's done the opposite or he's just discovering a previously unknown likeness for being told what to do, he has no objections to Narcissa's demanding attitude when they're in bed. It's not so much that being ordered to kneel by the bed and pleasure her with his tongue turns him on, though the noises she makes when he does it certainly do, but it gives him an unexpected sense of calm and acceptance, like he's where he's supposed to be and doing what he's meant to be doing. Which, in turn, makes things all that more enjoyable.

*PSM*

Lucius hears the sniffing first, but disregards it. At this hour of the night, sniffing is the least remarkable noise heard on Dead Block. JD Leziate is snoring in the middle cell, as usual; he can hear sleep muttering that he thinks is coming from August Selwynn, on the next to last cell on the other end; and Cassie has let of one off his god awful farts. On the other hand, Harry hasn't set the prison to trembling, so there's that.

But then he hears a noise that definitely doesn't belong in Dead Block—the soft whine of a dog. He opens his eyes, stares at the wall, and inadvertently holds his breath as he listens, wondering if he's hearing things, but he definitely hears it again and only then does he remember Harry's Animagus form.

He rolls over. The cell isn't quite dark, the ever burning torches in the corridor casting a low, flickering light over his space, letting him see the small, dark fox hesitantly crossing the space between his bed and Harry's. To his annoyance, when Harry reaches Lucius' bed, he sniffs around a bit, rubs against it in what Lucius can only assume is an attempt to orientate himself, then leaps up onto it.

"Get off," Lucius snarls as the fox clambers over him. "Evans, I mean it! Get back to your own bed!"

Harry doesn't. He settles into the space between Lucius and the wall and leans his head against Lucius' side. Furious, Lucius sits up, grabs the animal around his middle, takes him to the bars and roughly shoves him through then returns to his bed. Two minutes later, the fox leaps onto his bed again, lands on his stomach hard, and proceeds to settle down next to him.

"Go back to you own bed," Lucius growls, trying to shove the animal away, but Harry digs his claws into the sheets this time and growls. Lucius briefly considers retreating to Harry's bed, but he'd honestly rather share with a fox than give up the comfort of sleeping in his new bed, so he sighs irritably and resigns himself to it. With any luck, he'll squash the animal in his sleep and not have to put up with the younger man at all.

*PSM*

Snape walks into Hermione's flat with a knot in his stomach and his hand clenched around the note that arrived at breakfast that morning, asking him to meet her this evening to talk. It was infuriatingly vague and he spent all day fretting over it. It doesn't help that now he's here, Hermione's avoiding his gaze, offering to fetch him a drink herself instead of sending Dobby, and being generally nervous.

"Do you want to sit down?"

"I want you to tell me what's going on," Snape replies. "If you're ending things, just say it so I can leave with some dignity."

"What? Ending...? No. God, no that's not—oh, Merlin, is that what you've been thinking all day? God, I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"Then what?" he interrupts her rambling.

"You should sit down," she mumbles.

"Just tell me," he growls.

She inhales, lets it out in a rush, sits down herself, then blurts, "I'm pregnant."

Snape stares, stutters, clears his throat, then says raspily, "Contraceptive Charm. That is, we used—every time. I don't... uh..."

"It's not perfect."

Snape makes a strangled noise then covers his mouth with one hand. Hermione watches him, hands fiddling in her lap, bottom lip caught between her teeth.

After a minute, Snape lowers his hand. "You're getting rid of it."

Hermione's eyes flash and she leaps up. "I'm doing no such thing."

Snape looks genuinely terrified. "But you can't—Hermione, you can't _keep_ it. You had no qualms about getting rid of Longbottom's."

"That's was a completely different situation," she snaps. "I was eighteen, I wasn't ready for a child, I had no home and the world was under the rule of a racist madman. None of that is true now."

"I'm a werewolf!" Snape cries. "You can't—that child could be diseased. And you _know_ that I'm a terrible father. The situation may be different, but there are still plenty of reasons for you to not have that kid."

"Maybe you wouldn't be a terrible father if you actually tried!" she yells, and he jerks like she physically slapped him. He stares at her, mouth hanging open, and she glares back, folding her arms defensively over her chest. "I'm sorry, that was harsh. But it's true and you know it. You didn't try with Harry, not until too late anyway. But this is different. I'm having this child. I don't care if it's a werewolf—and by the way, that doesn't make it _diseased_, and nor are you—and I really hope you'll make an effort to be a dad to it, but if you're going to be a bastard and leave then fine. I'll raise it myself with my parents help, but I'm not getting rid of it."

Snape snaps his mouth shut, clenching his jaw so tight his teeth grind. His hands clench at his sides and tremors race up his arms.

"I need to process this," he says eventually, and Disapparates without waiting for a response.

*PSM*

James finds Snape in the Hog's Head pub, a shot of vodka on the bar in front of him, glaring at it with his hands tight in his lap. He doesn't look around when James slips onto the stool beside him.

"How many have you had?"

"I haven't."

"What happened?"

"Hermione."

"What?"

"You wanted to know who I've been seeing. It's Hermione Granger. And she's pregnant."

While James is gaping at him, Snape wraps a hand around the shot glass, but doesn't lift it.

"Merlin's beard, Severus. Hermione Granger? An ex-student? Couldn't you find someone more your age?"

Snape's glare intensifies. "I have been teaching since I was twenty," he says, biting out each word. "There's a lot of people who are ex-students and quite frankly her age is the least of my concerns right now!"

He lifts the shot glass then puts it down again without drinking, closes his eyes and ducks his head. "It's madness," he mutters. "She wants to keep it."

"I should hope so," James replies sharply. "She shouldn't have aborted the last one, but at least then I understood why she did. She's got no reason this time."

"Except that the father is a werewolf," Snape growls, opening his eyes to glare at him. "And a historically bad father at that. I have a child; he's insane and in prison for murder."

"You made mistakes with Harry. That won't happen again."

"What makes you so sure of that?"

"Because you haven't drunk that shot yet," James replies. "You're a better man than you used to be, Severus. You can be a better father to this kid than you were to Harry."

"You don't know that."

"Don't tell me what I do and don't know."

Snape exhales loudly through his nose. "I retract my order," he murmurs.

James reaches over and tugs the glass out of his grip then slides it down to the barman, who tosses it back himself.

"You can be better, Severus. It won't be easy, I can promise you that, but I believe you can do this and not fuck it up."

Snape glances at him. "How can you have that much faith in me after everything I've done to you?"

James shrugs. "I'm an optimist. Come back to the castle, or do you need to go apologise to Hermione for being a git?"

"I should probably apologise."

"Yeah, I thought you might."

*PSM*

Hermione's eyes are suspiciously red when she opens the door to Snape, but she still glares at him.

"I'm going to fuck up," he tells her, because whatever James believes, it's true.

"You're human," she replies and he winces because he's really not. "I expect you to make mistakes and I'm hardly going to be perfect either, but I expect you to learn from your mistakes and try to avoid making them in future. There's nothing worse than someone who makes the same mistakes over and over again."

"I'll endeavour to do my best."

She smiles. "I can't ask more than that," she says, turning and gesturing for him to come in. He doesn't move.

"And if my best isn't good enough?"

She takes his face in both hands and kisses him gently. "It will be. Come inside, there's a lot we need to discuss."

*PSM*

Emmett Moon is a thief. He's been a thief since he was old enough to wrap his fist around something and crawl away with it. By the time he's ten, he's been banned from every shop in Carlslot, the small town he's born and raised in. At fifteen, he's expelled from Hogwarts for repeated offences. He spends the next eighteen years in and out of Azkaban prison for a variety of theft-related charges, and when he's thirty-three he kills the head of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes while attempting to steal a magical object that is used by Obliviators to keep large groups of Muggles calm as they go about their work. Emmett is arrested and sentenced to life in prison.

Sixteen years later, in 1998 when the Ministry is under the command of Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Azkaban, now Dementor free, undergoes a reorganisation, Emmett is one of thirteen male prisoners—females being located on the other side of the prison—to be placed in what comes to be known as the Dead Block. Emmett himself doesn't agree with this decision, given that his fellow prisoners are rapists, murderers, and ex-Death Eaters, and he himself has only ever killed accidentally, but he's forced to agree with the decision, privately at least, when Brooklyn Hopkins points out that Emmett has a strong knack for getting into places where he isn't meant to be and, subsequently, it's to be assumed he would have a strong knack for getting _out_ of places where he _is_ meant to be.

After being moved, Emmett finds himself in two minds about his relocation. On the one hand, he has a cell to himself rather than having to share with a bunk mate, the guards on Dead Block appear to be much more laid back than the rest of them, and because Dead Block's inmates are there for life and generally considered unrepentant, they're not forced into the strict schedule that the other prisoners are given in the name of rehabilitation. On the other hand, being considered so dangerous means he's never let out of his cell, being alone means he doesn't have anyone to occasionally muck about with when he gets horny and his own hand isn't enough, and being on the Dead Block puts him on the same cell block as Harry Evans.

As the youngest prisoner on the block, not to mention blind, mutilated, and quietly insane, Harry Evans shouldn't be a problem for a seasoned criminal like Emmett Moon. Emmett has, after all, shared a cell block with violently insane people like Bellatrix Lestrange, and he was in Azkaban when it swarmed with Dementors and the time in 1994 when one of the human guards started torturing prisoners and it was several months before the rest of the guards realised.

But none of those ever woke Emmett in the middle of the night by causing localised earthquakes. More times than he cares to admit during the years Emmett is in the Dead Block, he wakes up terrified and crawls under his bed as the entire prison trembles around him, praying that the bricks don't crumble and bury him at any moment.

The nights Harry screams are better. Whilst it's far from pleasant to be woken at two o'clock in the morning by terrified shrieks, it's familiar; screaming was common among new prisoners when the Dementors were there. Not to mention that when Harry vents his emotions through noise, he doesn't do it through magic, and after two weeks the guards learn to put Silencing Charms on Harry's cell every night.

Then, shortly before midnight on the 28th of February, Emmett Moon discovers the bed isn't enough to protect him.


	11. Spring, Part 1

**Warning:** Gore.**  
**

**Spring, Part 1**

Annabeth stands beside Dayton and Cyrus and struggles to keep down her breakfast. Before becoming a prison guard, Annabeth worked for the Aurors. She had to quit when a Death Eater cursed all her joints into turning the wrong way and the healers were unable to fully restore her manoeuvrability. She doesn't complain too much; she still has her life and she can still walk, and working as an Azkaban guard isn't that bad after the Dementors leave.

But during her years in the field, she never got used to the violence and mess that some humans manage to inflict on others. Her stomach wasn't so weak as to force her to quit, as it did some, but neither was it as tough as some of the other Aurors. The sight of Emmett Moon's cell on the morning of the first of March definitely ranks as one of the more unpleasant things she's ever seen. He looks as if he's been crushed, but there's nothing in the cell to have done it. Blood splatters over the floor and walls, his head is so destroyed it might as well be gone, and his insides are splashed across the bed and dripping onto the floor. The smell is rancid and in the next cell, August Selwynn is vomiting loudly.

Beside her Dayton turns sharply and stalks to the other end of the block. Annabeth follows, taking the chance to get Emmett's remains out of sight, and they come to a halt outside Lucius and Harry's cell. The small table onto which prisoner meals come is larger now and Lucius sits at it, expression irritable.

"When is our breakfast arriving?"

"We've got a death, Malfoy," Annabeth replies curtly. "Just in case you hadn't noticed."

"I don't see why it should interfere with mealtimes."

"Keep complaining and you won't get anything."

Lucius scowls, but says nothing more, and Annabeth's attention turns to Harry, sat on his bed, as Dayton speaks.

"Hey, Evans, did you kill Moon?"

Annabeth isn't really surprised by Dayton's question; given the manner of death, there is almost no other possible suspect. That besides, Emmett isn't the first person in Azkaban to die in a questionable manner since Harry's imprisonment, and Harry's magic and criminal history makes him a prime suspect for the deaths. When half a dozen Death Eaters kill themselves in the same night mere months after Voldemort's death, it's generally assumed that Harry's responsible. Harry neither confirms nor denies the accusations, but the evidence is so minimal that he's never charged with the deaths. Not that there's much point, Annabeth realises, when Harry's already serving a life sentence.

But she doubts Harry is responsible for this death. The Death Eaters, by their own admission in court, had taken part in torturing Harry during his imprisonment at the hands of Voldemort, so Annabeth could see why Harry would have them kill themselves. Emmett Moon, on the other hand, has had absolutely no interaction with Harry prior to them sharing a cell block, nor after for that matter. She can see no reason why Harry would kill Emmett, especially so violently, and she strongly doubts he would kill purely for the sake of killing. She was at his trial and heard his confessions; everyone he killed was either at Voldemort's command, or as revenge—his Muggle uncle because of the abuse he inflicted on Harry, and the man known as the Assistant because he killed Draco Malfoy.

But then, she also doesn't see who else could have done it. She trusts her fellow guards enough to believe they would never kill a prisoner, and thought that even if any of them did they would do so in a less violent manner.

"No."

"You want to try that once more with feeling?"

"I didn't do it."

Annabeth leaves Dayton to his interrogation, tells Cyrus to get back to his rounds, and goes to report the death to the Ministry. They would send a cleanup crew and Aurors to do an official investigation. Annabeth's own remaining Auror instincts tell her they won't find much.

*PSM*

Snape doesn't resent Michaela's interruption while he's marking assignments as much as he would if he were actually marking them. As it is, he's mostly sitting and staring into space while he still tries to wrap his head around the fact that he's once again going to be a father, and an involved one at that. In all honestly, he welcomes the interruption.

"What can I do for you, Miss Creevey?"

She drops into the chair facing his desk and without preamble blurts out, "Students with addictions don't get expelled, right?"

Snape might be disappointed if he hadn't been sat in the Hog's Head less than a week ago with a shot of vodka in his hand, and that realisation surprises him, though he doesn't show it.

"You drank."

She neither confirms nor denies it. "They don't, do they? You can't expel people just for having an addiction."

"No," he says slowly, "but a student overcoming addiction typically takes time out from school to deal with the addiction, particularly to endure the withdrawal stage of recovery. A student's health takes priority over education and they will need to discuss with their parents, their Head of House, and a healer as to whether remaining in school is what's best for them, which it's often not."

She nods. For a long moment she stares at her lap and fidgets, linking her fingers, pulling them apart, cracking her knuckles, and eventually smoothing down her robes, taking a deep breath and saying without looking up, "Since October I've been taking Hale's Brew."

Snape inhales sharply. Hale's Brew is a potion that dulls the mind and senses, said to 'soften the world' for the drinker, and Snape understands immediately why it would appeal to Michaela after what she told him a month ago. While not illegal to possess in certain quantities, several ingredients are heavily restricted and it is illegal to trade. But Hale's Brew is also known as Crushed Glass due to the way it reflects light when properly brewed. What most illicit potion dealers don't tell their customers is that Crushed Glass is an appropriate nickname not only for that, but because extended use destroys the internal organs. The pain usually drives users to a healer before things become unfixable, but the true danger comes from trying to repair internal damage while the patient endures harsh withdrawal symptoms.

"I tried to stop," she adds in a rush. "After Christmas I quit and I felt like sh- really bad, but I started again, only now... I think it's killing me."

"Depending on how much you've consumed over the last few months, that's entirely possible, Miss Creevey."

Her shoulders slump and she closes her eyes, making him think for a minute that she's going to start crying, but when she opens them again and looks at him there's no sign of tears.

"Will you help me?"

"I will," he assures her. "But this cannot be kept secret, Miss Creevey. Professor Flitwick will need to be told, as will the headmistress and Madam Pomfrey, and your parents."

She nods. "I know."

"Out of curiosity, why did you come to me?"

"You know what it's like," she answers with a shrug. "To be an addict. I've known that ever since the first day of the year. I figured you'd help me first and scold me second." Her expression turns nervous and her next words are hesitant. "Sir, will you tell the others? Professors Flitwick and McGonagall? Please?"

He nods, getting to his feet and moving around the desk. "We will go to the Hospital Wing first; Madam Pomfrey will need to assess the extent of damage the potion has caused you. I will speak to the others while that is happening."

She sighs shakily and stands. "Thanks, professor."

*PSM*

The Hale's Brew hasn't damaged Michaela beyond saving. Snape explains the situation to McGonagall and Flitwick then accompanies McGonagall to Newcastle to inform Michaela's parents of the situation. Afterwards he escorts the two Muggles to Saint Mungo's where Pomfrey immediately sends Michaela; the Hogwarts Hospital Wing isn't equipped to deal with Hale's Brew withdrawal and recovery.

Snape's not really surprised when Michaela tries to insist on returning to Hogwarts once her insides are restored and the worst of the withdrawal dealt with, but between himself, her parents, and a healer they convince her to instead join the thirty day addiction program provided by Saint Mungo's, which will take her into the Easter holidays, after which she could return to Hogwarts. Snape, having already agreed with McGonagall, does tell her that the teachers will send homework assignments if Michaela is so eager to continue her studies, though no punishments will be afforded if she fails to complete any. It satisfies her.

*PSM*

"James, we need to talk."

James freezes, and then forces himself to lower his knife and fork, setting them on the plate and slowly lifting his gaze to look across the Grimmauld Place dining room table at Narcissa. "We do?"

"Yes." She lifts her glass and drinks down a mouthful of wine before speaking again, still holding the glass. "I appreciate your company," she tells him and his heart sinks. He tries not to let his expression show it. "I have appreciated your company most nights for the last two weeks, however I can't help but feel used."

"Used?"

She holds his gaze across the table and he can't help fidgeting slightly under it. "It seems to me that you are using me as a distraction from something that is plaguing your thoughts. When someone seeks my company, I expect it to be because they want it."

"I do want it," he reassures her hurriedly. "I promise you, Narcissa, I want and enjoy your company."

"But you are using me as a distraction nevertheless."

He glances down, hunching his shoulders slightly. Narcissa takes another mouthful of wine then sets her glass down.

"From what?"

"I can't say. It's about Severus."

Narcissa eyes flick briefly to the edge of scars visible at the top of his collar. "Has he assaulted you again?"

He looks up in surprise. "No. Why would you think that?"

"For a man so intrinsically tied to your life, you mention him rarely and have mentioned him almost not at all these past two weeks. You're clearly bothered by something, his past stands against him, and the only time you seem to truly relax recently is when we get physically intimate. It seems logical to conclude that he did something that's prompted you to avoid him and the pain of which, emotional or physical, is eased only by my touch."

His mouth twists into a scowl before he can stop it. He hates the implication that he's a helpless abuse victim. Even if Snape has assaulted him a few times, he isn't stuck in some abusive relationship with someone he thought loved him, hiding bruises and flinching from the touch of anyone that came near him.

"That's not it."

"Then what is?"

"I can't say. It's not mine to talk about and he forbid me tell anyone anyway."

Her mouth tightens. "That doesn't ease my suspicions, James. You told me before that he's not supposed to issue orders."

"He didn't notice, I don't think. Sometimes he doesn't. But I promise it's nothing bad and it's not even anything to do with me; it's just something he doesn't want anyone knowing about yet. He's still dealing with it himself; he doesn't want anyone else knowing."

"But you didn't point out his error and ask him to request you keep this secret rather than order you to."

"No," he admits with a frown. "But it doesn't matter."

"It does when—"

"It doesn't!"

She doesn't jump at his outburst, but her eyes widen slightly. He pushes his chair back and gets to his feet, stalking towards the door with the intention to leave only to whirl when he reaches it, glaring as he looks at her.

"I don't talk about him because I don't want to put you off," he says. "I've seen a few other woman since Voldemort died and every one of them said that I talked too much about Severus; one of them was even convinced I was shagging him. I've tried to avoid that with you because I really enjoy your company and didn't want you thinking my life revolved around Severus."

Narcissa pushes her own chair back and stands, taking a step towards him, but he backs up and she stops.

"I like it," he continues, a hint of challenge and self-condemnation in his tone. "I didn't realise until recently, but I feel better when I'm being told what to do. It's only since—recently that he really stopped giving me orders; at first he struggled to word himself in requests and indirect statements instead of orders and then for a while he didn't care, but after this—" he jerks his collar down to show the scars on his shoulder "—that was when he really stopped issuing orders. But I never realised I missed it until you came along. You're dominant. In bed, you tell me what to do and I like that. Not in a kinky way—it's not that I get turned on by being ordered around—but I feel better for it. It feels right, and I know that's all because of the Animancupium, but I can't change that. When he ordered me not to tell anyone about this secret I didn't care because it felt right to get a direct, indisputable order from him that he didn't immediately retract, and it doesn't hurt anyone for me to keep this secret so it doesn't matter that he gave me an order."

He looks down, reaching for the door handle and stepping aside so he can pull it open. "Now you know the depths of my depravity, I'll be going."

He turns and walks out.

"James, stop."

He does. Her footsteps approach and then she comes around to stand before him, taking his face in both hands and kissing him firmly on the mouth. When she pulls away he looks at her with his brow furrowed.

"Come upstairs with me."

"What?"

She steps back, raising an eyebrow. "Is that not imperious enough for you, Mr Potter? I said come upstairs with me, where you will take off your clothes and make love to me."

She turns and starts walking away. He doesn't hesitate to follow. "Doesn't it bother you?"

She pauses at the stairs and turns to face him. "I won't presume to comment on the relationship between you and Severus; that's not my place and you've mentioned a therapist who I'm sure is far better suited to advise on the issue. So far as our relationship is concerned, I don't consider your Bond with Severus to be an influencing factor at this stage, and I can assure you I have no qualms about ordering you around if that is what you enjoy."

She steps closer, cupping his cheek with one hand and slipping the other under his robes to hook a finger over the waistband of his trousers, and puts her mouth to his ear. "I _do_ get turned on by telling a man what to do in the bedroom," she whispers, sending a shiver down his spine. "So come upstairs and make love to me. Don't make me say it again."

When she draws back to look him in the face, he cocks a grin. "Yes, ma'am."

*PSM*

"Severus."

"Hmm?"

"Stop staring at my tummy."

Snape flushes and lifts his gaze to Hermione's face, but she's smiling, lounging on the sofa in the sitting room he shares with James. They met McGonagall when coming into the castle and the headmistress pursed her lips but said nothing. Snape hasn't mentioned the pregnancy to her yet and he's more than tempted to never do so. She clearly still has issues with their relationship; he's not sure how she'll handle him having a child with Hermione.

"It's a bit incredible, isn't it?" Hermione says.

"There's life inside of you. I'd say that's very incredible."

He's still not entirely convinced it's a good incredible, but he's passed the stage of panicking every time he thinks about the fact that he's going to be a father again. He is still prone to minor panicking when he considers that he's going to be an involved father; even though he knows he made the wrong decision by not looking after Harry when he was young, the thought of raising a child terrifies him. He knows nothing about children under the age of eleven.

Hermione shifts to lean into his side, nudging him to lift an arm then resting her head on his shoulder while he settles his arm around her. He's still getting used to this, too, if he's honest, this casual intimacy and the fact that someone wants to spend time with him and feels affection for him.

"How do you think this conversation's going to go?" she asks him, glancing towards the door.

"I don't know."

"I still can't believe he's dating Narcissa Black. How long has that been going on?"

"Since November."

"Do you trust her?"

"I'm not the one that needs to."

"Yeah, but he's... I mean, it's... she's the ex-wife of the man who locked him in a cellar for fourteen years. He's not seeing her because of some kind of displaced feelings from Lucius, is he?"

"He seems convinced he's not and so far as I know his therapist hasn't any issues with the situation."

"Is he happy with her?"

Before Snape can answer, the door swings open and the topic of their conversation steps inside, humming, which Snape thinks should answer Hermione's question, though he stops when he sees them.

"Severus, Hermione. This is a surprise." James pauses, then asks, "Do you want me to leave?"

"No, we want to talk to you, James," Snape says.

"Both of you? What about?"

"Two things," Hermione says as James moves to sit in the armchair. "One, we want you to be godfather."

James can't keep the surprise off his face. "You've decided that already?"

"It wasn't a difficult decision. You're an obvious choice and we already know you get on well with children."

"Alright. What's the other thing?"

"We want to discuss housing," Snape answers.

James glances between the two of them then leans back in his chair. "You want me to move out of Black Stag House."

"I didn't say that."

"You don't have to. You're the one that needs the space now. I can stay in the castle once the school year ends, after all; you can't. Obviously you'll need a room for the kid and you'd never give up your lab, so mine gets to become the nursery. It's fine," he adds, getting to his feet and stalking towards the door. "It's not like you ever wanted to house share with me anyway, Severus."

He leaves, slamming the door behind him.

"That didn't go quite how I expected," Hermione says, worrying at her lower lip. "Should one of us go after him?"

"Not right now," Snape sighs, leaning forward and burying his hands in his hair.

"Do you want him to move out?"

"I'd resigned myself to never getting rid of him."

"That's not an answer, Severus."

"Does it matter? He's clearly already made his choice and I said I wouldn't interfere with his decision."

"You know he only said that because he thinks that what we want."

"He only wants to stay because of the Bond. I only want him to for the same reason."

"So?"

He lifts his head and looks around at her. "What do you mean 'so?'?"

"I mean the fact that a magical bond is making you want to live together shouldn't make you not live together just so you can both spite it. Quite frankly doing so is just stupid."

"You've got no idea what you're talking about, Hermione."

"I don't know what it's like to be Bound to another person," she agrees, "but I know that you're both adults who agreed to be Bound and you're both aware of what it means. This Bond is central to your lives, especially James'; you can't just pretend it doesn't affect everything else you do. If it makes you want to keep living together, then do it. If you fight it, it'll probably only hurt you both."

He doesn't say anything, but his mouth turns down into a thoughtful frown.

"We've already agreed, assuming this relationship doesn't fall apart before then, that I'll move in with you come summer and we'll see how we manage cohabiting. I can accept James as a housemate as part of that. Then if cohabiting suits us, we'll discuss the issue of bedrooms and you'll have to consider the possibility of losing or moving your lab to make space for a nursery."

A pained expression crosses his face, but he doesn't argue the point.

"Now go after him and tell him you're not kicking him out. For a man in his forties, he does a remarkable kicked puppy expression and it makes me feel bad."

Snape snorts but gets to his feet and heads for the door.

*PSM*

"I told my parents," Hermione tells Snape over dinner that evening, had in Snape's quarters as they both decide attending dinner in the Great Hall will send a stronger message about their relationship than they're ready to imply, and they don't want to deal with McGonagall shooting them disapproving glances. James is eating with them, at Hermione's invitation. Snape hasn't mentioned, nor does he intend to mention, the jealousy issues that James expressed a month earlier, but he does keep half his attention on the other man throughout the meal; he isn't convinced by James' insistence that he won't attempt to alienate Hermione.

But all his attention snaps to Hermione when she speaks. "You did?"

She nods. She's eating mint sauce straight from the jar, having declared herself not that hungry since she ate a large Sunday lunch with her parents earlier, as she does every week. James watches her with the vague amusement of someone who's previously watched a woman indulge strange pregnancy cravings, while Snape watches with a wrinkled nose at the strong scent and a quiet marvel that she can consume the stuff straight. He winces when the spoon scrapes against the side of the jar and she shoots him an apologetic look, licking the spoon clean.

"How did they take it?" Snape asks hesitantly. Annoyed as he is at McGonagall of her disapproval of the relationship, he's far more wary of what Hermione's parents will think of it—of him. McGonagall has no right to disapprove of them; Hermione's parents, on the other hand, have every right to dislike their daughter dating a man old enough to be her father.

"Shocked. I told Mum first, when she found me throwing up. She's pleased she'll be getting a grandchild, but she's a bit wary about you," she says apologetically.

"Expected. Might I ask, though, how old are your parents?"

"Mum's fifty-three and Dad's just turned fifty-nine, but that's not why she's wary, although she had a bit of trouble swallowing it. Dad's the one that'll probably have an issue with your age. We decided it was best for her to tell him about it on her own so he can get used to the idea."

"At least they're older than you," James remarks to Snape, who glances at him then looks back to Hermione.

"What is your mother's problem with me then?"

"Did you tell them he's a werewolf?" James asks.

"No. I didn't want to completely overwhelm her and there are some parts of the magical world that they still have difficulties with. I'll let them get used to this—" she gestures with the spoon in a motion that includes her stomach and Snape "—first before I mention anything about werewolves."

"You may not want to mention it at all," Snape advises. "It's hardly something they need to know."

"Maybe. We'll see. But her problem is... um... your criminal background," she mutters with a grimace. Snape stiffens. James sets his cutlery down, gaze fixed on the other man, hand drifting towards his wand.

"You told your mother that the father of your child was a Death Eater," Snape says coldly.

"Don't talk to me like that," Hermione snaps. "I told her about you years ago. You were my teacher _and_ my best friend's father; of course I talked about you, and I'm not in the habit of keeping things from my parents, even magical things. So yes, they know you were a _spy_ against Voldemort."

"Then what's the concern?" Snape asks, voice still stiff.

"The concern is that Harry also grew up to commit murder and my mother's concerned about the possibility of passing on a genetic predisposition to crime."

"No such thing exists," Snape snaps. "Criminal tendencies are the result of improper nurturing or situational despair. Your mother does you a disservice by thinking any child of yours could become a criminal."

"What does that say about Lily then?" James asks quietly.

Snape looks at him. "Excuse me?"

"If a child's actions reflect the mother, what does Harry's behaviour say about Lily?"

"That's not what I meant."

"What did you mean then?" Hermione demands. "Because it sounds to me like you think a mother can pass on character traits, good or bad, but a father can't."

"That's not—I just meant that your mother has no place fearing the actions of an unborn child because of _my_ past. That child will have a better upbringing than I or Harry had; he will not grow up to become a criminal."

"She."

Snape stares. "S-she? You know that?"

"You can't," James says with a frown. "Not this early. Can you?"

"No," Hermione admits. "But it could just as easily be a girl as a boy. Either way, my mother's concerns, while not scientifically justified, are emotionally valid. You attempted to kill your own son—I _know_ your reasons," she adds when Snape opens his mouth to furiously defend himself, "but she's still afraid of someone who could kill their own child, for whatever reason. And then Harry ends up in prison for murder. To someone who's only heard the stories second hand, it's understandable that they'd be concerned about your future offspring."

"Even when that offspring is their grandchild."

"Even then," Hermione agrees quietly, and then bursts into tears.

*PSM*

"She alright?" James asks when Snape stalks back into their rooms some half an hour later after having walked Hermione out. Snape offered to accompany her home, but she refused, insisting she was fine and apologising again. During a long fifteen minutes of crying she complained about her mother's issues with Snape, and Snape discovered that agreeing smugly and vaguely insulting his lover's mother is a sure way to get punched on the arm. He also discovered that Hermione is surprisingly good at punching and that James is infuriatingly good at vanishing from the presence of annoyed and weepy people. Snape and Hermione apologised to each other, and once Hermione calmed down she decided it was time to go home.

Snape drops onto the sofa, leaning forwards and lifting both hands to rub at his temples. "I should not be this stressed four days after the new moon."

James sits beside him. "Your girlfriend of—"

"Please don't use that word."

"Girlfriend? Why?"

"Teenagers have girlfriends. I'm forty-five."

James looks at him critically. "Girlfriend reminds you too much of the age difference."

Snape glares at him.

"As I was saying, your... lover of... what, two months? Is unexpectedly pregnant and her parents aren't overly fond of you. That's reason enough to be stressed."

"Nine months," Snape groans. "Nine months of this."

James snorts. "Nine months and the kid's entire life. You think the stress just goes away once it's born?"

Snape groans, dropping his head back and closing his eyes. The sofa shifts as James moves then Snape feels the other man's thigh resting against his. "It's not all bad, y'know. Having a kid. Sure there's stress and crying and nappies that smell bad enough to make you gag, but when you start teaching them how to walk, when they say their first word, when they just look at you and smile with all that childish innocence... it's worth getting woken up at three in the morning and changing shitty nappies."

Snape lifts his head and looks at him. "What was Harry's first word?"

"Other than ma and da? Broom."

Snape swallows an unexpected burst of jealousy that James got to hear Harry call him dad as a baby; he sacrificed that right when he and Lily agreed Snape would have no part in Harry's upbringing.

"Broom? You were trying to turn him into a Quidditch maniac before he could even walk, weren't you?"

James grins. "Yup. Sirius got him a toy broomstick for his first birthday. He was a brilliant little menace on it."

"Only you could use the words 'brilliant' and 'menace' in the same sentence."

"You know I'm going to teach this kid how to fly. They'll be the star Seeker on their house team."

"You do recall that I have no remarkable Quidditch skills and Hermione has told me she doesn't like brooms."

James waves a dismissive hand. "So I have my work cut out for me. But they'll fly. It's my godfatherly duty to teach them."

"Studies come first. You will not convince them to eschew their schoolwork for Quidditch."

"Yeah, yeah. With the combined brains of you and Hermione they'll barely need to crack open a book."

Snape decides there's probably no use in pointing out that they're as smart as they are because they crack open books on a regular basis.

"Has your jealousy subsided now you've met her?" he asks instead.

"Yeah."

"And the child?"

"What about them?"

"Don't be pertinent; that child will take more of my attention than Hermione does. What's that going to do to you?"

"Nothing. I mean it," he adds when Snape looks sceptical. "I swear, the kid isn't a problem. I'm his godfather. I'm fine with that."

"Or her's."

"Or her's," James agrees. "Which would you prefer?"

"I don't know."

"I'd like a daughter," James muses.

"Are you and Narcissa ever likely to reach that stage?"

"Doesn't matter if we did. Don't go shouting about it, but she can't have kids."

Snape looks at him in surprise. "Already?"

James frowns at him. "What do you mean already?"

"Isn't... I mean, you know... menopause. Isn't that's why she can't have kids?"

"She's not that old, Severus. No, it's just she suffers unexplained infertility. Lucius told me about it while I was still locked up. They had to rely on magic to even make Draco."

"Lucius kept that close to the chest," Snape murmurs, though he understands why. A pureblood woman unable to conceive was cannon fodder for the gossip mill. Lucius would never admit that his wife couldn't give him an heir without magical assistance.

*PSM*

August Selwynn is a serial killer, but he's a clean serial killer. He despises the Death Eaters when Voldemort rules not only because he's Muggleborn, but also for the simple fact that they kill violently. Violent deaths disgust him, nauseate him, and when Voldemort rises to power, once and then twice, he hides and cowers in fear that they will bring their violent deaths upon him. August will not die violently. He will die like his grandfather did, going peacefully in his sleep, and he will do it with the assistance of potions if need be.

Potions are August's preferred method of killing. It isn't his best subject in school—that's Charms—but he is competent enough and studious enough to create his own perfect potion. A poison, really. It kills slowly but peacefully, first neutralising the drinker's central nervous system so they feel nothing, then paralysing them to keep them still, and then gradually shutting down their bodily functions. It lets August sit and watch in quiet contemplation as the life flees them. That is why he kills people. He likes watching life spark out of existence, just as long as it does so _quietly_.

August doesn't like Azkaban. He doesn't like his arrest, which is a noisy affair resulting from the misfortune of an Auror stumbling into her home to find August calmly watching her lover die. August himself is perfectly compliant; he knows early on that one day he'll be caught and arrested, because that's what happens to people who kill, but the Aurors don't seem to realise that his arrest will be much simpler if they don't called him names and seethe over his actions. Yes, he knows killing people is wrong, but he enjoys it anyway and he wants to do it. He doesn't need them being so unpleasant about the whole situation. It isn't like he spends his interrogation trying to convince people that murder is _right_.

And then there's Azkaban. Azkaban is the quietest noisy place August has ever been. Even when no one screams and the only sounds he hears are the rattling breaths of the Dementors guarding them, the entire prison seems to quiver and sigh and scream itself. Not to mention the noise inside his own head. August prides himself on having calm, quiet thoughts, but in the presence of Dementors his mind races and shrieks and drives him to the brink of madness.

He thinks it'll be better when he hears about the reformation in the wake of the Dementors abandonment and Voldemort's downfall. He's quietly pleased to be informed that he's one of thirteen people to get shifted into the new cell block designated for dangerous prisoners. With only thirteen of them, it should be blissfully quiet.

But he doesn't account for Harry Evans.

He dislikes Harry immediately, because he hears from the guards and the other prisoners that Harry is a Death Eater, and August dislikes Death Eaters. That dislike only grows when he hears Harry scream at night, and when his magic rattles the prison to its very foundations dislike shifts to hate. Harry Evans is someone that August would dearly love to poison. But he can't, so he sits in his cell and he reminds the guards every night to put Silencing Charms on Harry's cell, to save him from some of the noise, and then, on the 29th of March, August Selwynn dies screaming.

*PSM*

"He's got to go."

Annabeth, sat behind the warden's desk, doesn't even need to ask Dayton who he's talking about. "We have no proof Evans killed Selwynn."

Dayton puts a hand down on the Aurors' report on the desk between them. "His insides _melted_, Anna. He did not die naturally. That means that either one of us did it, and I know you don't believe that for a tenth of a second, or an outsider somehow snuck into Azkaban and cursed Selwynn, and that's simply impossible, or Evans did it. I don't know why and he can deny it until he's blue in the face, but he needs moving before he kills every prisoner on Dead Block."

"You really think he'll do that?"

Dayton straightens up and folds his arms over his chest. "I think we need to consider the possibility, Anna. He's a danger to the other prisoners, we've always known that, and now there's a strong chance that danger's come. We can't restrict his power as long as he's got those runes carved in his skin, but we can put him somewhere it won't affect those around him. It has to be done. He might not stop at the prisoners on Dead Block, and then he might not stop with the prisoners. For all we know he's responsible for Brooklyn and Wilfred as well."

Logically, Annabeth knows he's right. Harry has the means and opportunity to kill August and Emmett, even if she can't see a motive, and that's more than they have on anyone else. She also knows that her desire to defend Harry from these accusations primarily springs from the fact that whenever she looks into Harry's cell and see him utterly withdrawn on himself, she's reminded of the twelve year old niece she has in Saint Mungo's who also sits staring at things no one else sees and speaking to no one.


	12. Spring, Part 2

**Warning:** Torture.

**Spring, Part 2**

Harry screams, back arching off the floor of the Great Hall, hands scrabbling at his sides, agony tearing through every fibre of his being. Hours pass, the pain unrelenting and unforgiving, and he never stops screaming even when he knows his throat should be raw and bleeding and his body long beyond its threshold for this amount of pain.

When it finally stops, he slumps, sobbing and curling in on himself. The chain attached to the metal collar around his throat grows taut and he whimpers, but forces himself to his hands and knees and crawls, following the tug until he's right at the foot of the throne sat in the middle of the hall.

"Look at me, Harry."

Reluctantly he lifts his eyes and looks at the figure sat in the throne, the seventeen year old body swathed in expensive robes, beautiful white-blond hair haloed by a platinum crown, but eyes that should be grey instead glowing red.

"You deserve this," Draco Malfoy says. "You deserve this pain for not saving me. You deserve it for getting me killed."

"I'm sorry," Harry whispers. "Please, I never wanted you to die. I couldn't stop it, it wasn't my fault."

Draco's hand grabs the collar and hauls Harry up, bringing their faces close together. "You should never have brought the Death Eaters with you. You shouldn't have let the Assistant come along when you knew his Master was in the room with us. You should have fought Riddle harder and never let him take control of you as much as he did."

Blood begins to drip down from under the crown, staining the pale hair and trailing down Draco's deathly pale face. "You did this to me."

"Wow," says an American voice. "You're just a mess, aren't you?"

Draco shoves Harry to the floor and Harry looks around to see Cyrus stood nearby, sucking on a sugar quill.

"What are you doing here?"

"I came to see how you were doing," Cyrus answers around the quill. "I guess that sedative wasn't the only reason for your disturbing dreams. You're welcome, by the way."

Harry frowns, getting to his feet as the Great Hall fades away to be replaced by Dead Block. His own cell bars are open, as are the two on the other end, which both have blood slowly pooling out of them. "I don't understand. I thought that was a dream. You're just my imagination."

"Nope. I'm real as you are. Just indulging in a little dream walking. And I have to say, I'm still disappointed in you. I go to all that effort to get you detoxed and back to reality, and the best you can manage to display your power is to kill a couple of inmates?"

"I didn't kill them."

Cyrus takes the sugar quill from his mouth and uses it to point towards the growing pools of blood. "Really," he says sarcastically.

"It wasn't me."

Cyrus sticks the quill in his mouth again. "Sure about that?" he asks, and then disappears.

*PSM*

"My parents want you to come to Sunday lunch."

Snape thinks a sentence like that really shouldn't inspire such apprehension in a man his age. He shifts in the uncomfortable chair he's sat in while waiting with Hermione for her second pre-natal exam at Saint Mungo's and points out, "Your parents don't like me."

"They've had a few weeks to get used to the idea and they want to meet you."

"Is your father going to attempt to castrate me the moment he sees me?" he asks, and gets a sympathetic glance from the young man sat opposite them with his heavily pregnant and equally young wife. They look barely old enough to have finished school.

"I don't think so," Hermione muses, "but I'll ask Mum to hide all the sharp objects before you come."

He glowers at her. She pats his arm.

"Will you come?"

"If I say no will they be content to hate me from a distance and never meet me?"

"No."

"Thought not," he mutters.

"You really don't have to be scared of my dad. He's a sweetheart."

"He rips people's teeth out for a living."

There's a squeak from the young woman opposite and her husband turns pale. Hermione frowns.

"He cares for people's teeth."

"Hermione, I'm a half-blood. I know what dentists do. My father took me to one once without my mother's knowledge and I can honestly say that that man scared me more than most Death Eaters ever did."

"Now you're just being dramatic."

"He drilled a hole in my tooth and filled it with metal," Snape says, and doesn't show the amusement he feels when the man opposite turns even paler and the woman stares in horror. Hermione isn't so impressed.

"It's not as terrible as he makes it sound," she tries to reassure the couple. "Honestly, there's nothing wrong with Muggle dentists."

The couple don't look convinced. Fortunately for them the healer calls their name and they get to hurry away, shooting Hermione and Snape fearful glances over their shoulders. Hermione pokes Snape in the ribs.

"I can't believe you're making such a fuss out of a single filling that happened when you were a child."

"It was amusing and I imagine they're exactly as horrible as I think they are."

Hermione turns on him with a gasp. "You lied? Severus!"

"Only that I was the one to get the filling. My father had several and watching the dentist put them in did traumatise my five year old mind."

Hermione huffs and folds her arms over her chest. "You're coming to dinner next Sunday."

*PSM*

Annabeth is glad to hand over the position of warden to Lachina Macleod when the DMLE hires her. Healers have been unable to determine the cause of Brooklyn and Wilfred's comas and subsequently are unable to wake them up. Annabeth is offered the position permanently, but she never wanted to be in charge of the prison and is happy to remain as head guard.

She takes an immediate shine to Lachina, whose first act as warden is to tell Terrence Tanner, one of the younger guards, that if he touches her arse again she'll fire him. Annabeth sincerely hopes she'll keep her word; Terrence has spent his entire career being a sexist arsehole, but Brooklyn never fired him despite numerous complaints from female guards about his inappropriate comments and butt grabs. Even as Lachina introduces herself in the guard room, Annabeth hears Terrence mutter to one of the other male guards, "Bet she's a dyke."

Annabeth resists the urge to hex him, but secretly hopes Lachina is gay, simply because Annabeth is and Lachina is one of the most attractive women she's ever met. Her tight jeans and half-buttoned plaid shirt over a tank top leave no doubt that she's a fit, strong woman and if her attitude towards Terrence is anything to go by, she's a woman after Annabeth's own heart. Even if Lachina isn't gay, Annabeth sincerely hopes they'll be able to be friends.

Lachina finishes her brief introduction, sends everyone back to their duties, then calls Annabeth over. "I want you to come up to my office and tell me about the two deaths you've in the past couple of months," she says in a thick Scottish accent. "They're weird ones, from what I've heard."

"Just a bit," Annabeth agrees dryly, following her out the guard room.

*PSM*

Lucius thinks he deserves an award for self-control. Once again Harry has decided to invade his bed as a fox and only the knowledge that it'd take the young man a mere thought to kill him keeps Lucius from throttling the animal.

"This. Is. Not. Your. Bed," he growls. "Go back to your own, you mangy animal."

Harry sticks his nose under Lucius' pillow.

"Why are you doing this to me?" Lucius asks. It's not a whine. He's a Malfoy and Malfoys don't whine. "Can't you bother someone else?"

No answer.

"We don't even like each other. I think your mother's a Mudblood and I participated in your imprisonment at the Dark Lord's command. Why won't you leave me alone?"

Harry tucks his tail against his body, closes his eyes, and goes to sleep.

"I hate you," Lucius grumbles.

*PSM*

Seeing a fox have a seizure is an odd experience, Lucius discovers, watching the animal's body twitch, legs jerking about. It's also incredibly annoying because not only does it force him out of his own bed, but also messes up the sheets and gets fur all over the place.

Then, when it's over, Harry vomits on his bed.

Lucius gives an outraged cry and grabs the fox around the middle, shaking him roughly.

"You turn back and fix my bed now, you horrible cretin!" he snarls.

Harry vomits again, this time all over Lucius' front. Lucius drops him and looks down at himself, face horrified, trying not to inhale the rancid smell. He doesn't move until Harry turns back to human, moaning weakly.

"Clean. Me. Up," Lucius commands in an unsteady voice. "Now."

There's a moment's pause then, mercifully, his clothes and bedding are perfectly clean as though freshly laundered. Harry transforms again and Lucius thinks he might scream, but instead of jumping back onto the bed, the fox crawls under it and promptly falls to sleep. Realising it's probably the best he'll get, Lucius carefully checks his bed is definitely clean before climbing in and falling asleep himself.

*PSM*

Lunch with the Grangers is as nerve-wracking as Snape expects. Ben and Linda Granger are polite and friendly, and the lunch itself is fine, but they both individually manage to catch him away from Hermione to make warnings about not hurting their daughter. Linda catches him coming out the bathroom before they eat and doesn't bother to sugar-coat her threat, outright saying that she doesn't care if he's a wizard, she will strap him to a dentist's chair and drill all his teeth out if he ever hurts Hermione. Ben is a little more subtle about it, inviting Snape out to the garden to see his vegetable plot and talking about how his sister-in-law's inability to stay sober for more than a month at a time over the last fifteen years has taken its toll on the family, ruining her own marriage and relationship with her two children. Snape's not sure if Hermione told him about his drinking problem or if Ben figured it out when Snape refused wine with lunch, but he doesn't bother denying it, just nods to say he gets the message.

It's not until he gets back to Hogwarts later that afternoon that his day really turns bad though, when he walks into his quarters and find James passed out on the sofa with an arm covered in blood and a knife loosely gripped in his other hand. He feels the blood drain from his own face as he crosses the room in two long strides and drops down beside him with his wand drawn, pressing two fingers to James' throat in search of a pulse even as he silently casts _Tergeo_ to clear away the blood and let him see the damage. He's relieved to feel a steady throbbing under his fingers and James stirring at his touch, but less relieved to find a dozen gashes in the man's forearm, though they've mostly slowed their bleeding to a slight trickle.

James sighs. "Crap."

Snape's panic turns to fury in an instant. "Crap? I come here and find you passed out like you're dead and all you've got to say is 'crap'?"

James tries to tug his arm away, but Snape grabs his wrist, holding it in place.

"You weren't supposed to find out. I didn't mean to fall asleep."

"Do you want to tell me what the hell you were thinking?"

"No."

Snape's mouth drops slightly. James has never denied him an answer in all the time they've been Bonded.

James tugs his arm free and draws his own wand, tapping it to his arm and muttering a healing spell. The cut nearest his wrist seals up without leaving even a scar and he moves on to the next. Snape watches, frowning.

"Why did you do this, James?"

James shrugs, not looking at him.

"Fine, then you should call Ryma and talk to her," he says, getting to his feet. "Clearly there's something wrong with you."

James looks up at him. "Is that an order?"

"No, it's a strong suggestion."

"Then I'm not doing it," James replies, attention going back to his arm. Snape stares at him.

"You're refusing to talk to your therapist because I didn't order it? Potter, have you gone mad?"

"If I have, at least I know why."

Snape continues to stare at him for a minute then sighs irritably. "Is this about Hermione and the kid? Are you carving yourself up because I'm not giving you enough _attention_?" he spits.

Without bothering to finish healing the last few cuts on his arm, James scrambles to his feet, his expression turning as angry as Snape's. "That's not how it is. I'm not some bratty child who's jealous that their parents have got a new baby."

"Then how is it? I'd really like to know, James, because it seems like you're a bratty child."

"My _soul_ is tied to yours, Severus," James snaps. "My entire fucking universe revolves around you whether I like it or not and whether _you_ like it or not."

"I am not forfeiting my right to have a life beyond you because of that," Snape growls.

"I never asked you to. That's not what I want."

"Then what do you want? Just spit it out already, Potter. What do you want?"

"I want you to give me some fucking orders!"

Silence falls over the room. James turns and steps away, running a hand through his hair while Snape stares at his back, processing what James just said, figuring out how he's meant to respond, and eventually saying, "You need to call Ryma."

"What, so I can be told it's just the Bond, that I don't really want to be ordered about and I need to ignore it, and get reminded of all the harmless alternatives to self-harm that I should remember when I get the urge to cut?"

"Yes."

"No," James snarls, whirling back to face him. "No, Severus, I don't need that. What I need is for you and Ryma and Oliver to realise that this Bond isn't going away, that pretending it doesn't exist isn't healthy for me, and that they're wrong about you not giving me orders."

"Last time I gave you an order I nearly killed both of us," Snape reminds him.

"No, last time you gave me an order it was to tell no one that Hermione's pregnant."

Snape closes his eyes. "Fuck. I hadn't realised. I retra-"

James shoves him in the chest, cutting him off mid sentence and glaring harshly.

"I don't want you to retract it. Don't you get it yet?" he asks, grabbing Snape by the front of his robes and shakes him slightly. "I need this, Severus. I need you to give me orders or I'm going to go mad."

Snape shoves him away. "It's just the Bond—"

"I know!" James yells. "I fucking know it's the Bond, but the Bond isn't going anywhere, Severus. We're stuck with it. _I'm_ stuck with it, for the rest of my fucking life, and I can't spend my life not getting any orders, or getting them only for you to instantly take them back. Ryma and Oliver decided on that because they think that ordering me about is abuse, but they're not the ones living with it."

"It is abuse, James. You've lost your free will; I might as well put you under the Imperius for all the difference there is."

"Abuse would be telling me to do something dangerous or treating me like a house elf. That's not what I'm asking. I just want you to stop picking your words so carefully. I want you to tell me to pass the coffee at breakfast, or order me to leave you alone when I'm annoying you, or demand I hurry up when I'm hogging the bathroom, instead of _asking_ me to do everything. None of that hurts me, physically or mentally."

"And me?" Snape asks. "Not giving orders is as much to keep the power from going to my head as it is to protect you, James. What happens when these 'harmless' orders start escalating?"

"Then I'll remind you to tone it down."

"What makes you think I'll listen?" Snape asks snappishly. "If things get bad then I'm probably not going to care about your opinion. What are you doing?"

James doesn't answer, just pulls off his jumper, then unbuttons his shirt halfway and tugs it aside to bare the spiderweb of scars on his left shoulder. Snape glances at them briefly, swallowing thickly, then looks back at James' face. James nods, tugging his shirt back up.

"You won't let things get bad again. You know you'd regret it too much."

"It didn't stop me after I got bit last summer."

"I'm fairly certain you won't get infected by a magical creature again, so I'm not worried, and you can't hurt me without hurting yourself anymore, remember?"

"James," Snape growls, and James sighs.

"Fine, yes, there's a risk that it'll go to your head and things will get bad, but I think I can recognise the signs well enough to warn you before things get out of hand, and I consider the risk less dangerous than what might happen to me if we carry on like we are." He gestures to the four leftover cuts on his arm. "This wasn't the first time, Severus. I've done it three other times in the last couple of months."

Snape shakes his head and rubs a hand wearily over his face, then sighs. "We're talking to Ryma and Oliver about this."

James nods. "I've got my monthly tomorrow at four thirty anyway."

"I'll call Oliver first thing in the morning to book an emergency appointment." His eyes drop down to the wounds on James' arm. "You should heal them."

James shrugs. "They've stopped bleeding. Healing spell won't do much for them at this point."

"They'll scar."

James just shrugs again. Snape scowls.

"Clean and bandage them," he orders. "Last thing we need is you getting sick from infection."

James nods and trots his way towards the bathroom. Snape watches him go and tries to ignore the little coil of satisfaction that came from telling him what to do.

*PSM*

Lily stands outside Harry's cell, arms folded over her chest and watching with faint amusement as Snape comes to an abrupt halt when he reaches the cell, looking inside with wide eyes. Dayton, the guard escorting him, looks just as amused as Lily feels at Snape's clear shock. She can't blame him; she's still slightly baffled herself as to why Harry is now sharing his cell with Lucius.

"Is this something to do with the new warden you just mentioned?" Snape asks Dayton without taking his gaze from the cell.

Dayton scoffs. "God no. You really think we'd implement changes like this? Evans did it and he won't change it back."

Lily watches Snape's gaze fix on Harry himself, who's perched on his own bed. Lucius is at the table where their meals arrive, reading a book. Snape moves down to the bars that are on Harry's end while Dayton shifts to stand a short distance away.

"I suppose there's not point in me asking what you're doing," Snape murmurs in greeting to Harry.

"I didn't want to be alone."

Snape physically starts, staring at Harry. "What?"

"I woke up and didn't want to be alone. I'd go back. I'd forget."

Snape is clearly struggling to compose himself and Lily doesn't blame him; she knows it's the most he's heard out of Harry since his imprisonment.

"Forget what?" Snape asks eventually. "Go back where?"

"My head," Harry tells him. He hasn't turned his head to face Snape and his voice is quiet. "They were alive and happy and I was... but I can't forget again."

"Is that where you've been all this time? In your head, pretending?"

Harry doesn't answer. Sometimes Lily finds herself wishing he was back in Elsewhere because at least there she could speak to him and know what's on his mind. On Earth, she can only guess.

"Perhaps you should tell him of the men you killed," Lucius says from his spot, not looking up from his book. Lily scowls at him and Snape looks over than back at Harry.

"What men?"

But all Harry says is, "Wasn't me."

Lily believes it, but she knows most of the prison, guard and inmates alike, don't. If she could, she'd make the guards aware of the trickster in their midst who's likely the true culprit.

"What men, Lucius?" Snape demands. Lucius glances up.

"Didn't you notice our two vacancies when you came in, Severus? As I hear, your son here made quite the mess of Emmett Moon, and we all heard August Selwynn go out screaming."

"Wasn't me."

"Is there any evidence to suggest otherwise?" Snape asks.

Lucius smirks. "Only the fact that they both died in their cells with no one else around. Evans can deny it all he likes, but there's no one else who could have done it."

Lily watches Snape's face tighten as he looks down to where Dayton waits. "Is this true? Do you lot think Harry killed those two inmates?"

Dayton looks at Snape with only a modicum of apology. "There's no one else who could have, Professor. I don't think for a minute that any of this lot would hesitate to roll on one of us if a guard had done it, and there's no way anyone broke in from outside. Evans is the only person capable of killing them like that."

Snape's expression is utterly cold now and Lily is glad there's someone who can stand up for Harry.

"I sincerely hope you have more to go on than that if you plan to charge him."

"I don't know that we will," Dayton confesses. "He's already serving life; at this point, it depends on the Aurors report of things and what the new warden decides."

Snape doesn't look pleased, but he clearly realises what Lily does—that until the Aurors finish their investigation, then there's little he can do.

*PSM*

Michaela Creevey comes to Snape's office the afternoon of the first day back for the third term. She's remarkably healthier in appearance than the last time Snape saw her, the bags under her eyes gone, her cheeks showing some colour, and her mouth curved into a smile.

"You're looking well, Miss Creevey."

"I'm a lot better," she agrees. "Mentally and physically. I'm seeing a psychiatrist now and he put me on anti-depressants. It doesn't shut my mind up as much as the Hale's Brew," she says with a wan smile, "but I'm learning to deal with that."

"I'm glad to hear it," he tells her honestly.

"I wanted to thank you. I probably would have died if not for you."

"It was your decision to stop using, Miss Creevey."

"But I probably wouldn't have if you hadn't made me read the book on addictions. So... thanks."

*PSM*

Lucius lies on his side in his bed and watches the sleeping fox beside him; he stopped complaining about Harry's occasional nightly excursions to his bed when it became clear Harry wasn't going to stop. But there are some benefits. Harry doesn't seem to dream while he's in Lucius' bed, or at least not badly. Lucius isn't sure whether it's because of his animal form or from sharing a bed, but Harry has never woken screaming during these nights, nor set the prison to trembling.

But this night Harry hasn't come alone. He dragged his bear along with him, soaking its arm in saliva and apparently not realising that Lucius doesn't want to lose any more of his bed space, and especially doesn't want to lose that bed space to soggy stuffed animals. If Lucius had a wand, he'd set the bloody thing on fire.

Well no, he thinks, he wouldn't, because if he set Kiwi on fire then Harry would probably set him on fire, but he enjoys the mental image nonetheless.

Lucius wonders, on nights like these when Harry's woken him and he can't get back to sleep, what it is that Harry dreams of on the nights he makes the prison shake. The torture? Does he remember multitudes of pain inflicted on him for being a traitor to Voldemort? Does he remember the feel of Walden Macnair's knife as he gauged out Harry's eye? Or is it the brutal rapes Lucius knows he suffered? Or the one thing that wakes Lucius up in the night in a cold sweat—Draco's death? Does his magic lash out at the prison because he remembers, as Lucius does with painful clarity, Draco's body hitting the floor of the Great Hall, the life stolen from him without even a shouted curse or a knife driven into his heart?

Lucius closes his eyes, clenching his fists and resisting the urge to strangle the fox lying at his side. Even if he could kill Harry before Harry retaliated, it would do him no good. Logically, he knows he can't even rightly blame Harry for Draco's death, but he does so anyway because it was Harry's relationship with Draco that made Riddle try and steal his body, which meant it was Harry's fault that Draco was in the Great Hall, perfectly placed for the Assistant to kill him.

But in his heart he knows it'd do him no good. He felt no better for killing Yaxley, who held the true blame for Draco's death, and he knows that he would have felt no better if he'd killed the Assistant either, so killing Harry certainly won't make him feel better. It wouldn't bring Draco back.

*PSM*

"Take off your robe."

James shakes his head to Narcissa's comment, gulping down water while Zoe changes the disk on the gramophone.

"James, you're hot and sweating. Take it off."

"Sorry, I'll cast a Deodorising Charm."

"That's not the problem. You'll faint if you carry on like this. You normally take it off. What's the problem today?"

"No problem," he assures her, casting the charm and pocketing his wand again. "I'm fine, Narcissa."

Her gaze narrows and she grabs his arm, opening her mouth to say more, but he winces. She closes her mouth, shifts her grip, and jerks his sleeve up. She sees the four healing cuts on his forearm before her jerks out of her grip and hurriedly yanks his sleeve back down, glancing around nervously. It's one thing to have no qualms about showing his scars, but he's not so comfortable to have fresh wounds on display.

"Was it Severus?"

"No," he mutters.

"Then who?"

"We're starting again," he says, not looking her in the eye, and makes to return to the centre of the ballroom, but she catches him by the arm again and drags him to the door and out into the foyer.

"Tell me what happened to your arm."

"I did," he answers, stepping away from her.

"What does that mean?"

"It means I took a knife and I cut myself."

"_Why?_"

"Because I'm fucked up, that's why," he snaps and her expression turns icy.

"Don't talk to me like that."

"Just get it over with."

"Get what over with?"

The ballroom door opens and Zoe sticks her head out, looking between the two of them. "Is everything alright?"

"We're fine, thank you, Zoe," Narcissa answers. "We just need a moment."

Zoe's eyes flick to James, who's not looking at either woman. "James?"

He glances at her. "We're fine."

She doesn't look entirely convinced, but nods and withdraws again. Narcissa looks back to James.

"Well?"

"You know what," he mutters. "We're finished. It's fine, I get it. No one would want to—"

"James Potter, you're a presumptuous idiot."

He gapes at her.

"Do you really think me so close-minded? Don't answer that," she adds immediately. "I realise we have differing socio-political views, but when it comes to matters of health I am sure we don't have such clashing opinions. I don't understand why you seem to think I would think so badly of you when you've already admitted to self-inflicting injuries," she reminds him, lifting a hand to his collarbone.

"That's different. That was years ago and that was about getting away from Lucius. This is recent."

"Which only make me concerned about Severus' treatment of you."

He sighs, stepping away from her. "Severus' treatment of me is fine, Narcissa."

"Then why did you feel the need to hurt yourself?"

"You wouldn't understand."

Instead of responding, she draws her wand, shakes back her sleeve and taps her wand to the delicate gold bracelet around her wrist. James has never seen her take it off, not even in bed or the bath, but she catches it with practised ease before it drops to the floor and then holds out her hand to bare her wrist and show the now visible four inch scar running over her pulse point. James' breath catches.

"You... did you...?"

"The Christmas after Draco died. Pippin saved my life and I spent some time in private psychiatric care afterwards." She puts the bracelet back on and the scar disappears behind a glamour he realises must be attached to the jewellery, which she then mutters a spell on, presumably to keep it from being able to get ripped off. "I won't presume to understand everything you've been through, James, but I understand the desire to die."

He shakes his head, turning away slightly and rubbing at his arm. "It's not about that. I don't want to die. Sometimes I just... I don't know. It's not always for the same reason."

"What was the reason this time?"

He shrugs.

"James."

He hunches his shoulders and shoves his hands in his pockets. "It's fucked up," he mutters.

"What is?"

"It makes me feel better," he admits with a sigh. "The Bond to Severus started to feel weird without any orders and it made me feel better to hurt myself. It was a distraction, I guess. The physical pain made it easier to ignore the soul hurt."

Arms slip around his waist from behind and he feels her cheek press against his back between his shoulder blades. "Have you discussed this with your therapist?"

"Yes. I did this on Sunday; I saw Ryma on Monday."

"Good." She squeezes him gently then pulls away. "Put a glamour over your arm if you're concerned about others seeing it then take off your robe."

He nods, turning and catching her by the wrist to tug her close and kiss her before he does as ordered.

*PSM*

Jason Gibbons sets his first fire when he's four years old, by taking his mother's wand from her pocket while she's not looking and gleefully jabbing his toy rabbit until it bursts into flames. Disappointed as he is to lose the rabbit, he's fascinated by the fire. When he's eight he figures out how to use his Muggle father's cigarette lighter and three months later sets the house on fire. At Hogwarts he becomes a menace in the Potions classroom, repeatedly causing potions to explode due to paying more attention to the fire underneath than the process of brewing, and occasionally simply setting desks alight in his over enthusiasm to light the fire. Slughorn despairs of him and gladly admits Jason is one of the reasons he finally decides to retire; Snape takes a simpler route and forbids him from using a wand in the Potions dungeon, demanding he rely on his partner for the necessary spell work and insisting Jason merely prepares ingredients.

After school, Jason gets a desk job in the Ministry, for the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. Six months later he causes a fire that destroys the Head of Department's office and vast amounts of important documents. He claims it's an accident and there's no evidence to suggest otherwise, but he's sacked anyway. He doesn't get another job, instead living at home with his aging parents and earning a living by casting fire tricks on a Muggle street, repeatedly bringing him under the eye of the Department for Magical Law Enforcement when he comes close to revealing magic to Muggles as genuine rather than sleight of hand and illusionary tricks.

None of his performances quite satisfy his desire to play with fire, though, and over the course of eight years he sets five houses and a Muggle office building on fire, killing a total of sixteen people in the process, and eventually gets caught when he attempts to burn down the home of a paranoid young wizard whose house is heavily enchanted against fire damage.

At first, Jason hates prison, of course. The Dementors are foul, horrible monsters, but when they've gone and the lingering madness fades, he doesn't mind it so much. It's a bit boring, but he thinks there could be worse places. But time passes and he gets more and more bored and the single candle he has to light his cell isn't much fire to play with.

He's not among the first thirteen to move into the Dead Block during the Azkaban reformation, but then six Dead Block prisoners commit suicide in one night and a couple of nights later Jason sets his cell mate's bed on fire, kills his cell mate, and the warden moves him to the Dead Block instead. He's forbidden from having any candles in his cell and his neighbouring cell mates are warned against giving him theirs, as sometimes happens. Jason isn't happy. To him, the only redeeming feature on Dead Block is Harry Evans. The occasional bursts of foundation shuddering nightmares aren't quite as entertaining as playing with fire, but he still finds something appealing about the potential destructive nature of Harry and envies his power.

On the 28th of April, Jason's fire betrays him.

*PSM*

Lachina stalks along the Dead Block to the third cell, stopping next to Annabeth, Dayton, and Cyrus and looking through the bars. Inside is a pile of ash. Nothing else in the cell shows any sign of being touched by flames, but there's water and sand decorating the floor. She stares at what remains of Jason Gibbons and listens to Annabeth report what happened—screams drew the guards' attention and they found Jason burning in his cell, but water, sand, and spell all failed to put him out.

"It was Evans," Dayton adds when Annabeth's finished. Lachina glances at him.

"Know that for a fact, do you, Nix?"

"Who else would it have been? You do know about him and his power, right?"

"Doesn't mean he did it," Lachina replies. "What about you, Cyrus? Any opinions?"

Cyrus shrugs. "I don't know what happened, but Dayton's got a point. No one else that could have done it."

"If it was him, he wasn't doing it consciously," Annabeth remarks. "He was seizing the entire time."

"I want moving!"

The guards' eyes shift to the next cell over, where Thomas Tiernan is up against the bars, face fearful and pleading.

"I want moving," he repeats. "I'm next and I don't wanna be. Get me the fuck out of here before that freak kills me."

"Calm down, Tiernan, you're not going to die," Lachina tells him.

"The hell I ain't! He killed them others and mine's the next cell. I want out!"

"Shut it! Get back in your bed and let us deal with this shit, or I'll stun you."

Reluctantly, Thomas retreats to his bed. Lachina turns her attention back to the other guards. "I'm going to contact the Ministry. Dayton, stay here. Cyrus, go back to the front desk and show the Aurors in when they get here. Annabeth, a word in my office please."

Lachina leads the way out, travelling to the warden's office in silence and speaking only when the door's shut and both women are sat down.

"Do you think we should move Evans?"

"I think we don't have much choice at this point," Annabeth answers. "He is the only plausible suspect. At the very least, if he's moved and the deaths continue, we'll know it's not him."

Lachina nods. "I think I have to agree with you. I'll write to the Ministry about it." She sighs. "Now I've got an afternoon of paperwork ahead of me. Joy of joys. Why do dead people cause so much extra work?"

Annabeth chuckles. "If you manage to finish it by six, we could go out for drinks to make up for a day stuck behind a desk. First round's on me."

"I'd best get on with it then," Lachina replies with a grin, earning a smile back.


	13. Spring, Part 3

**Spring, Part 3**

"Evans! Pack your things, we're moving you."

There's a murmur along the block at Lachina's loud proclamation, punctuated by the noise of the cell bars sliding open. Annabeth flicks her eyes to Lucius as he sits up on his bed. "Where are you taking him?"

"The Minister of Magic wants you moved elsewhere," Annabeth says to Harry as though he asked instead of Lucius. "He's decided you're too dangerous for Azkaban. We'll take a portkey to your new location."

When Harry makes no move to pack his things, Lachina draws her wand and casts a spell. Harry's toothbrush and toothpaste, cup, and two spare sets of prison regulation uniform fly into the plastic tub on the floor, neatly packing themselves before Lachina puts the lid down on it. She picks the box up and shoves it into the arms of Dayton then steps out of the cell.

"Move it, Evans."

With obvious reluctance, Harry picks up his bear, tucks it under his arm, and exits the cell. Annabeth steps forward and gently wraps a hand around his right arm, guiding him out and along the block, following Lachina while Dayton comes behind them.

They move through the prison in silence, but when they reach the outside door, there's a sharp intake of breath and Harry stops. The three guards stop with him, warily watching. They all know this is the riskiest part of the move. It's only the second time Harry's been outside in seven years, and the first time he left with the sole intention of rescuing his father; for all they know, bringing him out now will entice him to flee, unwilling to return to prison after this reminder of what he's missing, but the prison is too heavily warded against Apparition and portkeys for them to move him from inside, so they have no choice but to risk it.

But he doesn't make any motions to get away and when Annabeth steps forward he comes with her, following her guidance down the short steps leading out the prison and moving to the jetty that's beyond the wards. There, the four of them lay a hand on the plastic box and Lachina counts the seconds until the portkey activates and jerks at their navels.

They reappear in a square stone room, windowless and doorless, with a set of bars intersecting it. There's no sign from inside, but Annabeth knows the cell—because that's all it is, a prison compromised of a single cell—sits on a rock in the Atlantic Ocean. There's no anti-Apparition or anti-portkey spells, nor any of the other protections that are put on Azkaban, because they know they're all worthless against Harry. They know he can escape if he desires and rely entirely on his apparent self-punishment to remain here as he's remained in Azkaban. He'll have three guards on an eight-hour rotation and his meals sent to him by the same magic that they are in Azkaban.

As Harry sits on his new bed, Annabeth Apparates onto the other side of the bars and wonders if the other two are hoping what she is—that none of them will arrive at the cell one day to find Harry sat alone with the bloody remains of whichever guard was left on duty with him.

*PSM*

"Did you leave this list lying around by any chance?"

Snape glances up from the list of names he's reading, neatly written in Hermione's hand, to where she's lounging beside him in her bed with his own list of names.

"Why?"

She points to one at the bottom of the list where, written in different but all too familiar handwriting, is the name James. He scowls but Hermione smiles.

"It's a nice name."

"We're not calling it James."

She chuckles. "Well, what do think then? Any favourites from my list?"

"Madeleine and Cameron."

She smiles and snuggles against his sides. "Madeleine's one of my favourites too. Madeleine Rose."

He turns it over in his mind, but instead of replying lays down the list and says, "We should discuss surnames."

Hermione puts down the second list. "It'll be hyphenated, obviously. Granger-Snape."

"Snape-Granger sounds better."

"No, it doesn't."

"Madeleine Rose Snape-Granger," Snape recites. "Versus: Madeleine Rose Granger-Snape."

Hermione bites at her lip, then says, "Neither of those work if you're angry, but Granger-Snape works better in general."

"Why don't they work when you're angry?" Snape asks with a frown.

"Too many names," she answers simply. "Three names works fine, but four is too long to express anger. It wouldn't have the same affect."

"That has nothing to do with which sounds better."

"Granger-Snape sounds better."

"Perhaps we should get a third opinion."

Hermione nods. "I'll ask Enfys at work tomorrow."

"Fine. I'm asking James."

"Fine." Hermione picks up the lists again. "I suppose Madeleine Rose is the chosen girl's name then."

"I like it," Snape agrees. "What about a boy's?"

"I quite like Cailean from your list, but I'm not sure about a middle name."

"He doesn't have to have a middle name. Cailean Granger-Snape sounds fine."

"Hah! Told you Granger-Snape is better."

Snape rolls his eyes. "With Cailean. It doesn't mean I think it's better all around."

But Hermione's smug expression remains. "That was surprisingly easy. I always got the impression picking baby names would be hard and the cause of several arguments."

"Perhaps for the less intelligent."

Hermione jabs a finger into his ribs. "That's mean."

"Please remember who you're talking to."

"I would be concerned if I forgot," she replies. She picks up the two lists and puts them aside then curls closer to Snape's side, sliding an arm across his stomach and resting her head on his shoulder. "What are you planning to do when they school year ends?"

Snape sighs. "Find other work."

"Are you going to apply for funding for your werewolf research?"

"No."

"Why not? You want to do it and it's something you could definitely do."

"I'm not ready yet. My understanding of biology still isn't sufficient enough for me to begin investigating how werewolves work, and until then I won't be able to get funding. I'll need two years at Avicenna Healers' Institute before they would even consider a research proposal."

Hermione frowns at him. "AHI? Why would you need to go there?"

"They teach human biology, but those classes are available to those not looking to become healers as well."

"So why not take them? Is it too late to sign up?"

"I don't know, but I can't. I don't get paid to study, Hermione, and children are expensive. I'll get work and studying will have to wait."

Hermione sits up, shifting to sit cross-legged and look at him seriously. "I do have a full time job, you know, and I fully intend to work as long as possible before giving birth and get back to it as soon as possible afterwards."

"I don't expect you to pay for the child, Hermione," he replies, sitting up straighter himself. "And I will need money for my own expenses, besides."

"It makes logical sense for the person with the greater income to put forth more towards the child, and you could get a part time job while you study. Surely you intended to anyway?"

"And when am I supposed to look after the child in between studying and working part time somewhere? Assuming, of course, I can even find a job that will keep me for any substantial amount of time. For that matter, if we're both working then who _does_ look after the child?"

"My parents will babysit, and my grandparents, and don't even think of suggesting that I give up work to become a stay-at-home mum because I'm not doing it."

"I wasn't going to."

"Good," Hermione says. Then adds, "I still think you should go to AHI. Just listen, alright?" she says quickly when he opens his mouth to argue, and he snaps it shut impatiently. "If you're only going to be studying human biology, then you won't be a full time student at AHI, I assume. You would still have time off for the child even if you got a part-time job as well. Researching werewolves is really important and I really think you should do it. It would be incredible if you went on to find a cure for werewolves."

"You sound like you've already prepared my future for me."

"I'm just saying what I think. If you don't like it, fine. Settle for some job way below your skill set because you think it's what you need to do."

"I am trying to be responsible," he snaps. "In case you don't recall, the last time I put myself before my child he ended up insane and in Azkaban."

Hermione shoves him on the shoulder. "Will you stop thinking this child is going to go the same way as Harry? Even if you did abandon it and I died, I don't have any magic hating siblings to raise it poorly."

"I don't want to abandon it, which is why I'm trying to do the right thing."

"You do realise that having a satisfactory life _is_ the right thing to do? Do you think a kid will enjoy growing up with a father who hates his job but refuses to do anything else just because it doesn't pay as well, and subsequently become a miserable, grouchy git who eventually ends up blaming their child for being a drain on their life and responsible for preventing him from doing the things he wanted to?"

Snape's expression, which was bordering on angry a minute ago, is now tense and pale. "No," he says quietly. "No child would like that."

Hermione frowns worriedly. "Severus, are you alright?"

His mouth tightens briefly before he says, "You just described my father."

"Oh. I... I didn't know."

"I wouldn't expect you to," he murmurs, then sighs and tells her, "Part of the reason I never took in Harry was because I was convinced I couldn't be a decent father as I'd never had one myself. I thought no father would be better than one like mine and that even Dursley would be better as long as I threatened the man into treating Harry better." There's a mountain of self-loathing and anger in those words, but he makes a sharp gesture away when Hermione tries to touch him in comfort. "I realise my mistakes with Harry, but it seems I'm still going to make major mistakes with this child as well."

"No, you won't. _We_ _won't_," she insists when he looks at her with a raised eyebrow. "We won't make big mistakes as long as we think and talk about things. We'll still make mistakes—all parents do because no one's perfect, Severus, but we'll do our best. We'll raise this kid to the best of our abilities, but we also have to realise that having a kid doesn't mean sacrificing everything about ourselves for its sake. Parent-child relationships are like every other relationship—compromise is crucial."

"How is it," Snape says with a hint of incredulity, "that you're the one coming up with such advice when I'm the elder and already a parent?"

She smiles. "My grandma. She's always given great advice."

*PSM*

Annabeth is the guard on duty when Harry levels his prison. It starts with a rumble that she spares a brief thought for but mostly ignores, used to it in Azkaban. She's never before thought he would actually bring the prison down, despite the hysterics of some of the prisoners and guards, but as it grows worse and worse she glances up from her magazine and through the bars, then leaps to her feet. Harry was muttering for half an hour beforehand, but she ignored that too, knowing he often talks in his sleep.

Except he's not asleep. He sits in the middle of his cell, Kiwi clutched against his chest, and magic flaring about him. She gapes, clinging to the bars and staring at him. She's never seen magic like this, twisting and writhing around him like dark purple and black flames. If she squints, she thinks she can see tears streaking the left side of his face and his eyes seem to have lost their dullness, instead bright and looking almost alive if not for the way they still stare unseeing in front of him.

Brick and stone crash down around her, making her flinch, and she clutches the bars harder as the rock shifts beneath her feet.

"Evans! Stop this! You're going to destroy the whole place! Harry, stop it! You're going to kill us both!"

She's not sure he even hears her. The bars turn to dust in her hands and she staggers to her knees then shrieks as the rippling magic around Harry blasts all through the cell, rock and stone tearing apart with a noise like thunder crashing.

Then, suddenly, an all encompassing silence. The rest of the world seems to freeze around her as she looks up at where Harry should be, but sees only empty space. And then the ocean roars and water swamps over her. Not knowing nor, for the moment, caring where Harry has gone, she shuts her eyes, thinks strongly of home, and Disapparates.

*PSM*

Lucius is on the edge of sleep when there's a crack of Apparition and the air of his cell seems to thicken and solidify. Light blazes behind his eyelids and he instinctively turns his head to bury his face in his pillow while the air turns stiflingly hot around him. The all-encompassing pressure bears down on him, pressing on his body and making it nearly impossible to breath and his ears pop. Around him rock and stone groan and tremble, and he hears panicked shouts from the other prisoners and pleading screams of mercy from Thomas Tiernan.

Then it all vanishes as quickly as it came. Lucius feels sweat cooling all over his body and turns his head, inhaling a blessedly cool breath of air and opening his eyes to see a hunched figure in the centre of his cell. He takes a moment to recover from the dramatics of Harry's entrance then sits up and swings his legs around to set his feet on the floor.

"I thought they moved you," he says, glad to hear his voice is steady. In answer, Harry lets out a choked sob and crawls over to him. Lucius stiffens when Harry wraps one arm around Lucius' leg, the other clutching Kiwi, and presses his face to Lucius' thigh. But Harry doesn't seem inclined to hurt him, just cling to him and shake, breathing in short, panicked breaths. Displeased but unwilling to try and dislodge him in case he responds unfavourably, Lucius expresses his annoyance with a sigh but otherwise does nothing.

"Is he back?" comes Cassie's voice from the next cell over. "Malfoy, is Evans back?"

"Yes."

The answer is followed immediately by a terrified wail from Thomas.

"Shut up, Tiernan," Cassie snaps.

"Fuck you, Derrick. I'm the one he's going to kill next!"

"Just die quietly then, you pathetic fuck."

Thomas' reply is drowned by the crash of the block door slamming open. Running footsteps sound then Dayton Nix rushes past Lucius' cell, skids to a halt, and backtracks, staring through the bars at Harry.

"Shit, of course it was him breaking the wards," he curses, then inhales a sharp breath, eyes going wide. "Oh, bloody Merlin. Annabeth," he breathes, then turns and runs off again.

"Oi, Evans, did you kill Parker?" Cassie calls. Harry's only response is to cling tighter to Lucius' leg. For ten minutes Lucius listens to the comments thrown back and forth between the other prisoners and Thomas convincing himself he won't die because Annabeth is dead in his place, then Harry speaks in a voice so quiet Lucius has to strain his ears to hear it.

"They locked me up."

"Of course they locked you up, you're a convicted felon."

Harry shifts and lets go of Kiwi to grab Lucius' hand in one of his. Lucius doesn't pull away, but neither does he respond, hand lying limply as Harry's fingers curl loosely around it.

"They locked me in with nothing and no one. I was alone and trapped and alone."

The hand around Lucius' tightens and Harry shudders, curling up tighter and clinging harder to Lucius' leg. Lucius sighs again, but lifts his other hand and hesitantly settles it on Harry's head. He stiffens at the touch, but makes no move to pull away, and as Lucius strokes his hair he starts to relax.

"If you object to being locked up so much, I don't know why you let yourself be arrested in the first place. It's not like they can really keep you here if you don't want to be."

Harry doesn't respond and Lucius says nothing more, just keeps stroking his hair. He's always enjoyed playing with people's hair. It isn't something he ever admits out loud, because while he can look imperious doing it, saying it just makes him sound like a girl, and girls, his father tells him at a young age, are the only people who should play with hair. But he enjoys having soft strands slipping through his fingers. He loved tangling his hands in Narcissa's hair during sex, tugging her head back so he could mouth at her sinuous throat, or guiding her when she went down on him, or simply pulling until she elicited tiny little gasps, and then afterwards, when they lay sated together, combing his fingers through it, settling it all back into place as she drifted to sleep against him.

Playing with James' hair was a different experience. When he tugged hard at James' it was to make a point, to draw attention, and to punish. When he stroked it, it was a comfort, a gesture of goodwill to show he wasn't angry. He disliked James' hair at first—it was coarse and utterly untameable. The former was dealt with by the proper shampoo and conditioner—he used Cleansing Spells to keep the man's body clean, but hair required proper cleaning—but he despairingly discovered that nothing in heaven or hell would keep James Potter's hair under control. James was only ever amused by his attempts to try.

Harry's is surprisingly soft to the touch considering he, like Lucius, has suffered only Cleansing Spells in the last seven years. But, he supposes, Harry has his own magic to clean his hair and perhaps he simply Wishes for it to be soft. Lucius would certainly exploit such an ability if he had it, but it doesn't seem like the kind of thing Harry would spare a thought for. On the other hand, Harry is insane so who knows what things he spares a thought for.

He doesn't look up when he hears the cell block door open again and angry footsteps stalk towards the cell. Annabeth comes into view, Dayton behind her, and glares through the bars at Harry.

"You little wanker!" she yells, startling both Lucius and Dayton. Neither have heard her lose her temper before. "You almost fucking killed me!"

Harry doesn't react.

"I don't know why you're so surprised," Lucius drawls, mouth curling into a slight smirk.

"Shut it, Malfoy," Annabeth snarls. "You don't even know what you're talking about."

Lucius raises an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

Annabeth stares at him, breathing hard. Lucius looks down at Harry, following the movements of his hand through the dark hair.

"I know that you took an overpowered and traumatised young man who, twice in less than two years, was shut alone in a small dark room and tortured, and locked him alone in what I expect was a small dark room. Did you really expect him not to react badly to that?"

"Now that you mention it—"

"Shut up, Dayton," Annabeth snaps, then turns and stalks away. Dayton gives the pair one last look then follows after her. Only when Lucius has heard the block door shut and lock does he take his hand from Harry's hair and draw away the one still clutched in Harry's grip. "I would actually like to sleep tonight, Evans. We've pissed off the guards, now I would appreciate a Cleansing Spell and then you can get back to your own bed."

It's wishful thinking more than anything. He isn't surprised when Harry, after cleansing the sweat from Lucius' skin, instead turns into a fox, grips Kiwi between the teeth, and jumps up on the bed, settling against the wall until Lucius lies down as well and then shifts to lean against him instead.

*PSM*

Snape drops into a hospital chair beside Hermione and closes his eyes, slumping ungracefully and letting out a groan. It's the morning after the full moon and it takes more effort than he really has to get up and dressed to come out. He collapses when he stumbled out the floo and apparently looks awful enough that a healer says he can ride up in the patient elevator instead of taking the stairs.

"You didn't have to come today," Hermione tells him, biting her lip and looking over him worriedly.

"Find out sex," he mutters.

"I could have told you it. You look awful."

He grunts. Hermione reaches over and takes one of his hands in hers, holding it gently as he drifts into a half doze for the fifteen minutes before the midwife calls Hermione's name. Snape sways when he stands up, but glowers when Hermione tries to assist him, and shuffles into the patient room. Ann Raymond eyes him and pushes over her stool and Snape drops onto it gratefully, closing his eyes and only half listening as Ann checks Hermione over, including to ask how Hermione felt the night before. They don't know whether or not the child is a werewolf or what effect it might have on Hermione if it is, so Ann is paying extra attention to development around the full moons, but Hermione says she felt no different to normal. Snape hopes that it means the child isn't infected, but he knows not to rule out the possibility anyway.

Snape does focus when Hermione gets up on the bed and Ann examines her belly before casting a spell that fills the room with the sound of the baby's heartbeat. He's heard it twice before, but it still makes his breath catch, this intangible sign of life growing inside of Hermione and which Snape contributed too.

"That sounds good," Ann says. "I'm going to do the image projection now and the sex should be obvious, so if you want it to be a surprise you should look away."

"We want to know," Hermione replies and Snape forces his eyes open as Ann draws a slow circle over Hermione's belly with her wand then lightly taps it. The image of a six and a half inch foetus appears in the air above her, shifting slightly even as it appears, and Snape can't help but stare.

Ann inspects the image from all sides for a while, making Snape start to feel nervous, before eventually declaring, "It's a girl."

Hermione grins and holds her hand out to Snape, who stands up to go over, takes one step forwards, and passes out.

*PSM*

Snape wakes up in a hospital bed and has no idea why.

"Severus?"

He looks to the side to find James sat in a chair beside his bed, a pile of half marked homework resting on his knee and a quill in hand. Snape sits up, wincing slightly at aching muscles, and reaches for the glass of water sat on the trolley at the foot of the bed, drinking down half of it before asking, "What happened?"

"Apparently you collapsed this morning during Hermione's appointment."

He closes his eyes and groans, falling back against the pillows as he remembers. "Where is she?"

"Right now? I don't know. Work, I guess. The healers said she sat with you all morning but had to go after lunch. I've been here since classes ended."

"What time is it?"

"Just after five. You've been out all day, but the healer's said not to worry, that it was just exhaustion."

"Still shattered," Snape mutters.

"That's probably because you didn't sleep last night."

"I was distracted."

"Yeah, you mentioned. The baby was finally sexed. Did you learn it before you passed out?"

Snape has to take a moment to think about it, rifling through the hazy memories from that morning. "A girl. She—I—we're having a girl."

James smiles. "Congrats. Now you just have to pick a name."

"Madeleine Rose."

James' smile shifts to a smirk. "Nice, but you might want to discuss it with Hermione first. Trust me, they don't like it when you pick names without consulting them."

"You didn't."

"Yeah, I did."

"Moron. But Hermione and I have already discussed it. We picked Madeleine Rose weeks ago."

"It's a nice name. Hyphenated surname? Madeleine Rose Granger-Snape?"

Snape nods. "Apparently I'm the only person that thinks Snape-Granger sounds better."

"Probably because you're the Snape part and you want it first."

*PSM*

Lucius reminds Harry of Draco only in the ways that he doesn't. He's stiff in all the ways that Draco was loose—unsurprising when Harry's invading his bed, but it's oddly comforting. Draco had been soft and shifted with Harry, lying with him in a sprawl of limbs that tangled with Harry's own and made him feel comforted and enclosed. Lucius, by contrast, is stiff as a wall, yet letting off waves of human warmth that makes him far nicer for Harry to rest against than an actual wall, taking comfort from both the warmth and the solidity of him.

He smells different to Draco. Unsurprising, of course, and Harry doubts he'd have noticed so much without having a fox's sense of smell, but he likes it. There's just a hint of something familiar there, which Harry supposes must come from being Draco's father, underneath the smell of prison and the little tickle of unnatural cleanliness that comes from the Cleansing Spells the guards use on them. They aren't trusted to leave their cells for showers and Lucius complains about that at least once a week. It's something with which Harry agrees; Cleansing Spells just aren't the same as showers or baths.

Lucius' hair is different to Draco's, too. The exact same shade of white blond, but it's far longer, as Lucius doesn't trust the prison hairdresser to cut it properly, and coarser, making Harry think the softness of Draco's hair must have come from Narcissa, or perhaps it's just the result of not being able to properly wash it for seven years. It still manages to tickle his nose, wisps of it falling onto his snout when Lucius shifts in his sleep.

But it's his hands that Harry likes the most, both for how they're different and similar to Draco's. Larger than Draco's ever were and the skin not as smooth, but they stroke Harry's fur with the same surety and motions with which Draco combed his fingers through Harry's hair. It's the main reason Harry persists in invading Lucius' bed despite the obvious hate and fear the man has for him. In the minutes before Lucius falls asleep, when he's neither really conscious nor unconscious, his hand would fall to Harry's head and back, idly petting him in movements that manage to ease Harry's own fear like nothing else does. Lucius' hands are as large as Harry's fox head and he could easily throttle Harry with just one of them if he chose to try, but he strokes Harry with a gentleness Harry never would have imagined from the man. It's that potential for danger which instead brings comfort that eases Harry's mind and lets him sleep, if only for a few hours, without nightmares.

*PSM*

Thomas Tiernan has feared death ever since he was four years old and his mother told him that when people die they cease to exist entirely, to become non-entities who, given time, are forgotten by everyone—unless they became a ghost, but that's just as terrible because ghosts are the lingering imprint of tortured souls who eventually become monstrous beings with no self-identity. His father, upon realising this, attempts to ease Thomas' fear by telling him about heaven and hell, but makes the mistake of starting with hell and putting a very real fear of God into his young son, who promptly decides that as horrible as hell sounds, he doesn't want to go to heaven either if it means being near God.

Meeting the ghosts of Hogwarts doesn't ease Thomas' irrational fear of death at all. They terrify him and after his first term he begs to be withdrawn. His parents refuse until he's sent back for the second term and suffers a severe anxiety attack a week later. He's withdrawn from the school and private tutors are hired to teach him instead.

As he grows up, Thomas focuses his attention on finding a way to become invincible and immortal. He studies, travels to foreign lands to investigate rumours of strange magics, and creates potions and spells. He tests his creations on homeless witches and wizards, luring them back to his home with promises of food, clothes, and shelter, and then slipping his potions into their food or casting spells on them while they sleep, but when he tests them every single one of them dies. He feels awful about sending them on to wherever the dead go, or to become non-entities, but he doesn't feel bad enough to stop, because as well as instilling a strong fear of death Thomas' parents also instil in him the belief that the homeless are the useless dregs of society, who haven't worked for anything in their life and now have nothing more than they deserve, so their death is not a loss to the world.

But the missing homeless do get noticed and Thomas is eventually captured. He pleads his innocence in court, insisting that he can't be imprisoned because he was doing important work, and the lives lost to it are a small price to pay for the discovery he knows he will eventually make in eliminating the possibility of death for all humankind. His pleas are ignored and he's sentenced to life in Azkaban.

Eight years later, he's moved into the Dead Block when it's created, which he wouldn't mind if he were allowed out of his cell and into a communal rec room, like the less dangerous prisoners are, because then he could spend some time studying Harry Evans. Thomas would dearly like to study Harry inside and out, because Harry has survived the Killing Curse twice and Thomas believes that maybe the secret to invincibility is hidden in him. He's not sure if it's in Harry's blood, or his magic, or something else, but he knows that if he can find out then he can replicate it and no one would ever have to die again.

Thomas' hope that he will one day find the answer to escaping death stays with him right up until he dies on the 25th of May.

*PSM*

"Now what?"

Lachina shakes her head in answer to Annabeth's question. On the bed in front of them, Thomas' body is discoloured and stiff, looking grotesque as it lies on its left side with one hand tucked under the head and legs half bent up, the position Thomas was sleeping in when he died.

"This one might actually not be on Evans," Dayton remarks from outside the cell. "I mean, look at him. He's intact. Looks like he died in his sleep."

"Which is not what I'd call natural for a man in his fifties," Lachina responds. "Might not be messy, but it's still not a normal death. Get back to your rounds, Dayton. Annabeth, can you contact the Ministry please."

Both guards nod and head off to do as told. Lachina steps out of the cell to watch them go, waits a moment after the cell block door has shut behind them, then steps back into the cell and quickly draws her wand and a crumpled bit of paper from her pocket. She murmurs a spell that transfigures the paper into a needle and large plastic syringe, takes another glimpse out of the cell, then crouches by Thomas and slides the needle into purple skin on the inner thigh of his right leg where the blood has pooled. She carefully draws the blood until the syringe is full then withdraws the needle, snaps it off and vanishes it, casts a protective charm on the syringe, and pockets it, rising and stepping back just as the cell block door opens again.

"Aurors are on the way," Annabeth says, stepping into view.

"Thank you."

"What do you think this means for Evans?" the head guard asks quietly. "He won't be separated, but we can't keep him here, not with four deaths in as many months."

"I don't know," Lachina answers honestly.

*PSM*

She still doesn't know later that night when she goes to the address listed in the employee file of Cyrus Filidei. She knocks on the door and waits patiently for an answer then smiles when Cyrus opens the door.

"Lachina," he greets, surprised. "Fancy seeing you here."

"Hey, Cyrus. Can I come in? I need to chat."

"Sure. I'm always happy to have a pretty lady in my house," he says, dropping his voice to a seductive tone and wriggling his eyebrows suggestively. She responds with a bemused smile as she steps inside.

"You want to get me a drink?" she asks, walking into a modest living room.

"What's your poison?"

"Anything with alcohol."

"Coming right up," he promises, turning towards the kitchen. He gets only a step away then Lachina yanks a wooden stake from her pocket, the tip coated in dried blood, and rams it through his back hard and fast.

"That would be a stake covered in Thomas Tiernan's blood," she says, twisting the stake and eliciting a pained noise from Cyrus. "Your victim's blood... _trickster_. You shouldn't have come to Azkaban, and you definitely shouldn't have made it so obvious you were responsible. And by the way—those deaths were uncreative. You're not worthy of your title."

She lets go and Cyrus falls forward, dropping to the floor and twitching once before lying still. Lachina looks down at him unrepentantly.

"I just hope I can save Harry Evans from paying for your actions."

*PSM*

The front door of Cyrus' house slams shut behind Lachina and for a minute the house is silent, then footsteps sound in the kitchen and Cyrus walks out, unwrapping a bar of chocolate and taking a bite as he looks down at the body on the floor.

"Ten points for effort and execution," he says to no one, "but minus several for coming to the wrong conclusions."

The body shimmers and fades away and the stake clatters to the floor. Cyrus bends and picks it up, flipping it over in his hand. "You were right about one thing—those deaths _were_ uncreative. You should have realised from that that it wasn't me, so now..." He glances up and a duplicate of Lachina shimmers into view standing opposite him, as well as another duplicate of himself, both of them exactly perfect illusions. "A little payback. Now where'd I put that video camera?"

*PSM*

"Lucius. _Lucius_."

Lucius stiffens the moment he wakes, holding himself perfectly still so he doesn't give in to the urge to shove Harry off him. Harry is straddling his hips, both hands pressed to Lucius' chest, face bent close and hair hanging down to tickle Lucius' face.

"Get. Off. Me."

To his relief, Harry does, though only to kneel at Lucius' side in the spot he normally occupies as a fox, forcing Lucius to sit up or end up undignifiedly balancing on the edge of the bed. "What do you want, Evans?"

"I'm going to save Draco."

Lucius snarls. "He's dead. You can't save him from anything."

"I'm going to go back," he says in a whisper and sounds almost excited. "I'm going back and I'm going to save him."

"Going back? In time?"

Harry nods. Lucius forces himself to ignore the tiny spark of emotion those words generate.

"Is that wise? Time travel magic is dangerous, Evans. You could get stuck in a time loop like the Assistant, or worse—there's no telling how magic will react to you and him both being present due to time travel. You could cause immense amounts of damage with this."

"Don't you want Draco to live?"

"He's my _son_," Lucius snaps. "I would do anything to get him back. But if you mess up you could not only fail to save him, but destroy the rest of the world at the same time."

"I won't," Harry says with quiet conviction that silences any further objections. "I'm not the Assistant, my magic is different than his was. I can do this. I'm going to save Draco."


	14. Summer (Again), Part 1

**Summer, Part 1**

Moving through Diagon Alley is the biggest challenge for Harry. He conjures a cane like he remembers seeing blind Muggles use, but still looks through other people's eyes to help orientate himself and guide his way towards the Magical Menagerie. It helps that a lot of people are looking at him. He's hidden all his scars and Wished his green eye to be blue, and he's been locked up long enough he doubts the general public will remember his face well enough to recognise him, but apparently the sight of a blind man walking down Diagon Alley with a purple teddy bear clutched in one hand draws a lot of looks. He supposes the fact he can't see them makes them think it's alright for them to stare.

At the Menagerie, he has to stop. A Wish gives him the vision of the store owner, who's standing over a barrel of frogs' spawn, not near the front of the shop and so Harry has no way to see where the counter is. Fortunately there's a bell over the door and shortly after he enters the owner comes around to the front and Harry's able to see his way to the counter.

"What can I do for you, dear?"

"I need a cat," he tells the woman. "A gentle tempered one that doesn't mind being held a lot."

"Oh, I've got the perfect one. Wait here a moment."

She heads into the back of a shop, weaving between cages and pet paraphernalia, until she reaches the cat section. One comes up to rub against her legs and she shoos it away again, heading to where a black cat is lounging in a round bed. She picks it up, stoking between its ears as she brings it back to the counter and sets it down.

"This poor girl is a rescue cat," the witch explains as Harry leans the cane against the counter and reaches out to stroke the cat. "She was living with drug dealers. We think they might have been dosing her food or water because she's unnaturally docile. Hardly moves unless she wants feeding or the bathroom, but perfectly friendly. Happy to be held for hours, so perfect for what you want. You will just have to be careful with her diet. As I said, she doesn't move a lot so she could easily gain a lot of weight."

Harry nods, still stroking, and makes a Wish to look through the cat's eyes. It's momentarily jarring and he loses a lot of colour, but as his mind gets used to it he decides it's acceptable. It'll work for letting him see where he's going without having to rely on people.

"How much?"

"Twelve galleons. Obviously you'll need a bed, food and water bowls, food, a litter tray..."

She turns away to fetch those things and Harry makes a Wish then reaches into his pocket, pulling out precisely twelve galleons, setting it on the counter, and then scooping the cat up. By the time the witch returns with the accessories, he's gone.

*PSM*

McGonagall sits behind her desk and stares across the room at the figure opposite. Some part of her thinks she should be afraid to have an escaped prisoner sitting in her office, but she just doesn't think of him that way. To her, he's still just little—and the adjective still applies, even at twenty-four—Harry Evans, the abused boy who suffered far too much and wielded enviable, and admittedly terrifying, amounts of power. Even though she's personally seen him commit murder, she's also seen him break down and cry, seen him angry, happy, moody, excited, puzzled, amused, embarrassed... He's not someone she fears. She knows, or at least is almost certain, he's never killed or hurt anyone that didn't hurt him first or force him into it, and she knows she's never done anything against him. Their relationship was always good and she's got no reason to fear him. On top of that, it's difficult to be afraid of someone with a cat on their lap and a teddy hanging from their shoulders.

On the other hand, she knows from Snape that Harry's been insane since Draco Malfoy's death, and she doesn't know what possible reason he would have to come here upon deciding to escape Azkaban. But he answers that question when he first speaks.

"You have a Time Turner."

"I'm sorry, Harry, but I don't," she tells him, deciding the best course of action is to talk with him, find out what she can, and report it when she gets the chance.

"You gave one to Hermione for her third year, then she gave it back at the end."

"That's true, but the Time Turner wasn't mine."

"Whose was it?"

She hesitates, unsure if she should give him this information and drive him to the Ministry, but she knows he can force the truth out of her and if he decides to go to the Ministry at least it takes him away from her students. She might not fear him, but they will and people who are afraid don't react well.

"It came from the Ministry." She pauses, then asks cautiously, "Why do you want one?"

"I'm going to save Draco."

"You... Harry, you—" She stops short of saying he can't, because if anyone can it's him, but she also doesn't think he'd respond favourably to such a declaration. Instead she says, "That's extremely dangerous, Harry. Time travel is incredibly risky. Moreover, Time Turners only go back by hours, not years."

"I can do it."

His quiet determination keeps her from making any more objections. He'll do this no matter what she says.

"Well then. I wish you luck with it. I believe Time Turners are kept in the Department of Mysteries."

Instead of leaving, he takes one hand and holds it out in front of him. A Time Turner appears in his palm. He holds it by the chain and dangles it in front of the cat, who stares at it uncaringly, then takes it in both hands, fingers carefully running over it without turning the tiny hourglass.

"Thank you for your help, Professor."

She nods, then remembers he can't see and says, "Yes. I... good luck. You will probably need to hold the cat if you want to take her with you."

He nods and drapes the Time Turner around his neck then stands and carefully manoeuvres the cat so she drapes over his arms, leaving his hands free to hold the Time Turner. She watches him turn the tiny hourglass eight turns, and then he vanishes. The bear hanging from his shoulders doesn't.

*PSM*

The head office dissolves around Harry, turning so dark even Polaris, the cat, can see nothing, though she seems unconcerned by it, and after an indeterminate amount of time, the office rebuilds around him. The tables of obscure items that decorated the room during Dumbledore's time, but were gone when Harry visited McGonagall, are back in place, the chair he was sat in is now gone, as is the portrait that hung on the wall behind the desk, and a bird perch stands to one side with a brilliant red-gold phoenix sat atop it. Kiwi is gone from his back, but he doesn't have time to panic about that because he's not alone. As soon as he appears, a wand points at him.

"Identify yourself," demands Albus Dumbledore.

*PSM*

Snape is in the middle of a seventh year class when he's interrupted by a sixth year prefect saying he has an urgent summons from McGonagall. Snape dismisses the class after setting the homework and sweeps out the room, moving quickly to the headmistress's office. He pauses just inside the door when he enters to find two Aurors waiting with McGonagall—Tonks and Straub, the Auror who Snape met at the Potions Conference.

"What's this about?"

It's Tonks who answers. "Harry broke out of Azkaban this morning."

Snape's surprised, initially, because he still first thinks of the near-comatose young man he's seen over the years, but then he remembers his last visit to Azkaban and his surprise fades. If the guards are still blaming Harry for the deaths in the prison, perhaps Harry fled to avoid further persecution. Alternately, his mind unhelpfully provides, he may very well be guilty of the murders and fled to commit more.

He ignores that part of his brain. Harry wouldn't kill like that.

"I suppose," he sneers, "you've come to question me about his possible whereabouts and make it clear I'm to turn him in if he shows up."

"That was the plan," Tonks agrees, "but we now have reason to believe he won't turn up."

Snape folds his arms over his chest. "Why's that?" he asks coldly, daring them to say something about his parenting skills, or lack thereof, and how Harry won't want to come to him.

But it's McGonagall who answers. "Because he's gone back in time, Severus."

That's the last thing Snape ever expects to hear. "What?"

"He was here, just five minutes before Aurors Tonks and Straub arrived. He thought I had a Time Turner because I gave one to Hermione Granger for her third year. When I told him all Time Turners belonged to the Ministry, he used his Wish Magic to create one or bring it into the room."

Snape frowns. "Did he say what he wanted it for?"

"He said he was going to save Draco Malfoy."

"Which is impossible, of course," says Straub. "Time Turners don't even go back that far."

"He turned it eight times," McGonagall responds, but her gaze is on Snape. "With his magic, he might be able to make it turn back years instead of hours."

"Doubtful," Straub says dismissively. "He'll have gone back eight hours."

Snape turns a cold stare on him. "You know nothing of how Harry's magic works. If he wants it to take him back years, it will."

"I think it's clear he failed," Tonks says. "Not necessarily at going back, but at saving him. Draco Malfoy's not alive. If he'd saved him, we'd know. Wouldn't we? I mean, he'd be around. We wouldn't be talking about saving him because he'd never have died. But wouldn't that create a paradox?" she asks, looking confused.

There's a brief pause as they all consider it, then Straub shakes his head. "Whatever Evans did or didn't do with time travel, we've got a job to do. Evans has to turn up eventually and I do want to ask you about possible hiding places," he says to Snape, drawing a notebook and quill from his pocket.

"I can't help you."

"Professor Snape, we will arrest you for obstruction if you don't co-operate with us."

Snape raises an eyebrow. "Is that supposed to frighten me, Auror Straub?"

"A few days in Azkaban might make you realise the seriousness of this situation."

Snape's lip curls into a sneer and he turns, focusing on Tonks and effectively dismissing Straub, who clearly hasn't done his homework if he thinks a few days in Azkaban will frighten Snape. "I cannot help you. Harry's had two homes in his life—here at Hogwarts, and Black Stag House in Coleford. If he's not at either of those places, I don't know where he would be. In any case, if Harry doesn't want to be found, he won't be."

Tonks nods. She knows some of what Harry's magic is like even if Straub doesn't. "You'll contact us if he shows up."

"Of course," Snape lies. Straub snorts, but says nothing and the two Aurors leave. When they're gone, Snape turns to McGonagall.

"You should have summoned me."

She doesn't need him to elaborate. "My initial reaction when I have an escaped convict in my office isn't to call their father, Severus. _Don't_ start with me," she adds sharply when he opens his mouth to argue. "I am sorry, Severus, but I was not going to risk upsetting an insane, highly powerful young man by asking if he wouldn't mind waiting while I fetched his father."

Snape scowls, but put like that he can't argue with it. Harry has shown himself to be unpredictable; there's no telling what he would do in any situation and he can't blame McGonagall for being cautious.

She goes to the cabinet on one side of the room and takes from it a familiar purple teddy bear, holding it out to Snape.

"He left this?" he asks, taking the bear.

"Not intentionally, I'm sure. I don't think it was secure enough on his person to get pulled in by the Time Turner. His hands were preoccupied with that and a cat."

"What was he doing with a cat?"

"He didn't say," she answers, moving over to her desk and sitting down, then asking him, "Do you think he'll do it? Save Draco Malfoy?"

"I don't know. If anyone could, it's him, but even for him time travel magic would be extremely dangerous. Given that he's going back to a time when there was already a version of him stuck in a time loop..."

"Oh, Merlin, I forgot about the Assistant. To have that much time magic interacting... I suppose we can only hope for the best."

"What is the best in this situation?" he asks grimly.

"That sometime in the near future Harry reveals himself to have been living in hiding for eight years with Draco and the body in Draco's grave is fake."

"And the worst?"

"The universe is imploding and we're all going to cease to exist."

*PSM*

"I killed you."

Harry's words don't seem to bother Dumbledore.

"Identify yourself immediately."

Dumbledore's wand jumps out of his hand and floats up to hover near the ceiling of the room. Dumbledore's gaze narrows. "Who are you?"

"What's the date?"

For a long moment Dumbledore doesn't answer, still staring at him suspiciously. Harry waits. He knows he's messed up, but he needs to know by how much before he can fix it.

"June the first," Dumbledore tells him eventually.

"What year?"

"Nineteen eighty-nine."

Harry fingers the Time Turner, frowning. Sixteen years, but he doesn't understand why. He Wished for the Time Turner to take him back as many years as he turned it; why would it double that?

"I have answered your question; answer mine, young man."

"Harry Evans. But at this point I'm still known as Harry Potter to most people."

Polaris' gaze is fixed on Fawkes so Harry can't see Dumbledore's expression, but there's a moment's pause in which Harry thinks he's startled, though when he speaks his voice is neutral. "How old are you, Harry?"

"Twenty-four."

"Why have you come back in time?"

"I was going to save someone, but I've come too far."

"Time travel is extremely dangerous magic, Harry. You cannot change the past."

"I can."

"You cannot. If you save the person you intended to, then you will create a paradox."

"No, I just need to take someone and put them in his place. Someone will die, I will think it's Draco, and everything will still happen as it did, but I can take him away and go back to the future."

"It isn't possible to travel forwards in time, Harry. You will have to live out the intervening years." There's a pause in which Harry hears him sit down, then he asks, "Are you really willing to sacrifice an innocent person to save this Draco?"

"Yes."

"He must be very important to you."

"I love him. I died to save him and then he was killed anyway. I will sacrifice someone if it means he lives."

"Could you?" Dumbledore asks lightly, but there a hint of something else in his voice. "The act of willingly and knowingly taking life from another—"

"Is not so simple as one might think," Harry interrupts. "You've told me that before. I've killed people, Dumbledore. I've killed you. Letting someone else die is easy if it means saving Draco."

"I would like my wand back, please."

Harry shifts Polaris to look at the man. "You're afraid of me. That's why you put the cuffs on me."

"Cuffs?"

Harry doesn't explain. "I shouldn't tell you anything. I can save Draco, but it's dangerous for you to know too much about the future. You'll change it."

"Just as you plan to."

"I can control it. I know what I'm doing. You wouldn't know enough and you'd try to save yourself and mess up everything. If too much changes, I'll get stuck in a loop. I can't have that."

"I am an old man, Harry. I'm not afraid of dying."

Harry doesn't doubt that, but Dumbledore would still change things by having information. He turns himself invisible, sees Dumbledore straighten in his seat, and Wishes silently Forget everything that's happened in the last ten minutes. Sleep.

He watches Dumbledore slump in his seat, unconscious, and lets his wand settle on the desk then takes a moment to look around the office for Kiwi. There's no sign of her and he hopes she was left in 2005 and not lost somewhere in transit, if such a thing is possible. When he's sure he doesn't have her, he slips out the office and makes his way through the school. His plan hasn't gone quite how he wanted, but he intends to take advantage of the error and gets some information on time travel from an expert before he goes to save Draco.

*PSM*

The Assistant, wearing the blond haired blue-eyed face of a man he once dated in another timeline, sits on a stool in the Three Broomsticks, chatting up Madam Rosmerta and enjoying a pub lunch when the door opens and Rosmerta's indulgent smile turns to a disapproving frown.

"You can't bring that in here, mister."

The Assistant turns to look at the newcomer and can't help his mouth dropping open when he sees the man, who's at once both familiar and different enough to catch his eye. He's carrying a cat in both hands and his face turns towards the Assistant and Rosmerta when the bar owner speaks, though his mismatched eyes are blind.

"This is a pub, mate. You can't bring the cat in."

"I need to speak to him."

Rosmerta looks at the Assistant, who hops off his barstool, digging in his pocket for a few Sickles to pay for his lunch, tossing them onto the bar and telling her to keep the change.

"Tell me you're who I think you are," the Assistant says when he reaches the door. The man says nothing, stepping back outside and turning towards the south of the village and the mountains overlooking it.

"We should go to your cave."

"Who are you?" the Assistant asks, but starts down the path. The man keeps pace beside him.

"I'm you. Sort of."

Someone else might find those words confusing and distressing; the Assistant merely finds them ironic. He's used them often enough himself.

"Who's the cat?"

"Polaris."

"How'd you go blind?"

"Death Eaters and Uncle Vernon."

"Why is one eye blue?"

"When my uncle blinded me I got a fake eye instead. They only made magical ones in blue, but the normal one was made the same colour as my real eyes. Macnair took my other eye so now I have both fake ones."

"You can't see though, can you?"

The man shakes his head. "But I can look through other people, or animals."

"Ahh. That's why Polaris. He's your guiding star."

"She," the man corrects, stopping as they reach the foot of the mountains that are beyond the village. He shifts the cat to carry her with one arm then holds out his other hand. "I don't know where the cave is."

"Can you fly?" the Assistant asks, putting his hand in the man's.

"Yes."

"Good, it's the quickest way up."

Almost simultaneously they take to the air. The Assistant leads, guiding the man up the mountains to the entrance of the cave that he considers his own after waking up in it as a teenager so many times. Inside he clicks his fingers and starts a fire near the back, bringing extra light to the cave and then waves a hand to conjure two armchairs, sitting in one and waiting for the man to sit in the other.

"Where's the scar then?" the Assistant asks when the man's sat, cat nestled in his lap.

A familiar lightning bolt appears on the man's forehead.

"Why hide it?" he asks, fully aware the scar could be fake.

"Habit to hide it with the rest."

"The rest? Bloody Merlin!" he exclaims when scars appear on the rest of the man's skin, all over his face, neck, and hands, and probably under his clothes as well. He leans closer to peer at them, instantly recognising the runes. "Is that to counteract magic suppression? Did you do this to yourself?"

The man nods. The Assistant whistles. "Alright, I believe it's you. How are you here?"

"Don't you know?"

"Well I can make a few good guesses, but I want to hear it from you."

"Time travel."

"From when?"

"Two thousand and five."

There's not much that can startle the Assistant, but that does. "Are you serious?"

Harry nods again. The Assistant leaps to his feet and starts pacing, unable to keep still. "Two thousand and five. Outside the time loop. Seven years outside the time loop. This is incredible. This is proof there is something beyond these nineteen years. This... my god, this could mean I finally broke it. What happened to me?" he demands, whirling to face Harry. "Am I dead?"

"Yes. I killed you."

"Did you? Why? When?"

"Nineteen ninety-seven, because you killed Draco Malfoy."

The Assistant goes still. When he speaks, his voice is as quiet as Harry's. "I would only ever do that if my Master ordered it with my Trigger Word."

Harry's silence says everything.

"Blasted buggering shit on a stick. Who?"

"Preston Yaxley."

"_Yaxley?_ Ugh. Orange addicted pervert, he is. Not someone I'd ever chose which means I was forced. I hate that. Did you kill him too?"

"No, Lucius did."

"As long as he's dead." He sits back down. "So why'd you come back? You clearly know me and my story; didn't I warn you against the perils of time travel?"

"I wanted to save Draco."

The Assistant frowns. "You said that happened in ninety-seven," he points out, then sits up straight. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hang on a second—you say you came back from two thousand and five? That's not possible. Your deal to Crowley should have been paid in ninety-eight. Unless you made it later, but that's never happened to the best of my knowledge."

"It was paid," Harry says. "He took Riddle."

"Rid- Voldemort? He took Voldemort? In your place? How—oh. _Oh_." He laughs. "Brilliant! It was the Horcrux, wasn't it? The bit inside you when you made the deal meant Riddle's soul was part of the demon contract. But then you must not have destroyed the Horcruxes. Unless Crowley collected each piece of him when you destroyed them."

"I absorbed them."

The Assistant blinks. "You what?"

Harry explains how the piece of Riddle in the diary had transferred to him and how, after he split his own soul, he was able to absorb the other Horcruxes, building Riddle's soul within Harry's body and eventually becoming whole until Snape used the Killing Curse and Crowley took Riddle's soul to pay the debt.

"That's incredible. Bloody shame I'll never be able to do that."

Harry doesn't respond to that statement. He's frowning, eyes focused somewhere to the Assistant's right. "You didn't know."

"Didn't know what? About Riddle?"

"That I was the one who wrote in the diary. I remember you asking Dad about it. You didn't pay attention to what happened at the school that year because you fell in love with a woman."

"Nice as it is to know I'm going to fall in love, why are you mentioning this?"

"Because I've just told you, so you did know."

The Assistant blinks. "Oh," he says softly, then chuckles. "This is new. I've never been on this side of the information gap before. It's always me telling people things they shouldn't know. Huh. Not often I get new experiences." He revels in that for a brief moment then says, "Tell me why you've come back to now instead of to ninety-seven."

Harry reaches into his pocket and pulls out a Time Turner, holding it up for the Assistant to see. "I tried to make this turn back one year for each spin, but it doubled it. I've come back sixteen years instead of eight."

"Hmm. Clever idea; I didn't think of that when I went back. Might have been a touch more reliable than the ritual, save for the fact that it appears to not be." He lifts his arms and links his hands behind his head, watching Harry pocket the Time Turner again. "But seriously. You shouldn't have done this. You could be stuck in a loop now, same as me. Not to mention there's no telling what the universe thinks of having three of us existing at the same time." He pauses, then adds, "Y'know, it's entirely possible that with the level of time magic surrounding the both of us, if we touched then something very, very bad could happen."

"Like what?"

The Assistant shrugs. "The universe implodes and all life as we know it ceases to exist. That would be a terrible thing, but on the other hand it might actually break my time loop so I have to admit it's really quite tempting."

"I don't want to destroy the universe. I want to save Draco."

"You've got an eight year wait to do that. Are you planning to spend it in my cave?"

"I'm going to go forwards."

The Assistant glances at the pocket holding the Time Turner then back at Harry's face. "I would say that's impossible, but I've done a lot of impossible things. Do you have a plan to save Draco? What makes you think you're not stuck in a time loop? If you are, you might not be able to save him. And do you mind staying a while? This has never happened before, I have a lot of questions, and it's not like the wait will affect Draco."

"It could have."

"What could have what?"

"Someone coming from the future. You said it's never happened before, but it could have and they made you forget because they told you too much."

The Assistant has to take a minute to absorb that because it _is_ possible and it physically pains him to realise. Had he been given this hope that his loop will end before then had it ripped away? Though perhaps it's better that it is, so he won't be so disappointed when he starts over.

"I probably should. I told you about the diary when you didn't know before, so either I've changed things I shouldn't have or I wipe your memory."

"Or I lied," the Assistant suggests. "I do that a lot. You've told me I asked Severus about it, so I'll know to now. I'm not a normal person, remember. I'm not someone who could ruin things by knowing too much. I've got a lot of practice in not stepping in and changing things. Been doing it for Merlin knows how long."

"You don't want me to wipe your memory."

The Assistant sighs, lowering his hands to his lap. "Honestly? I don't know. I hardly relish the idea, but try as I might, having someone from the future in front of me gives me hope that I might break the loop this time. I don't know if I want to keep that hope because I know how crushing it is when I wake up in a fresh body."

"You'll forget everything by then anyway. Preston Yaxley gave you a potion that turned you into a teenager and made you forget everything that happened. You thought it was still your original timeline and Dad didn't give you the antidote before you died."

"Fucking pervert," the Assistant mutters, then sighs. "Right, so no hope anyway. Doesn't matter what you do with my memory in the end."

He waves his hand and a table with two bottles of beer appears between them. Another flick of his hand pops off the caps and he picks one up, taking a swig then saying, "Beer for you," just in case Harry hasn't realised.

Harry picks up the second bottle, sniffs it, then wrinkles his nose.

"Feel free to change it to something else if you don't like it."

"I don't think I should."

"Why's that? One beer won't hurt you, y'know."

"Dad became an alcoholic."

"Oh." The Assistant lowers his own bottle. "It's happened before, very occasionally. Tobias was too. And I have been, but then I've abused pretty much every abusable substance known to man."

"Who's Tobias?"

"Our grandfather. Severus' dad."

"Have you met him?"

"A couple of times. Not in my original timeline, though. I take it you haven't."

"Dad said he died before my first birthday."

The Assistant takes another swig of his beer. "From what I know of him you're not missing anything. He was a miserable drunk and Severus hasn't spoken to him since he took the Dark Mark. But as for the alcoholism, you're not necessarily at risk. There are no studies to suggest any genetic predisposition to it."

"Even though Tobias, Dad, and you all are."

"My dad wasn't an alcoholic, yours is. And I'm not exactly a normal test subject, y'know. I didn't become an alcoholic until I'd lived a few timelines and become extremely jaded and miserable. But if you don't want it, don't drink it. Tell me what drove Severus to drink and when."

Harry sets the bottle back down, pushing it along the table towards the Assistant, then busies his hands with petting Polaris. "I don't know why. It was after Draco died, while I was in Azkaban."

"Why were you in Azkaban? For killing me?"

"And everyone else."

The Assistant lowers his beer and sits up straight. "Everyone else? Who do you mean?"

"Dumbledore, Uncle Vernon, and the people Voldemort made me kill."

"You joined the Death Eaters? When? You know what, just tell me everything. Obviously it doesn't matter what you do to my memory so tell me your life story and you can decide whether or not to _Obliviate_ me at the end."

*PSM*

Tonks grabs Straub just as he's pouring himself a coffee. "Got a call in on Cyrus Filidei."

"Who?"

"Azkaban guard we couldn't get a hold of earlier. He's been found dead in his house."

Straub groans, gives his coffee a woeful last look, and goes after her, muttering as he steps into the Auror Apparition room, reads the address Tonks has written down and then Disapparates. They reappear outside a house where a couple of young Aurors are standing outside, one looking pale and sickly, the other bored. Tonks and Straub move inside and through to a sitting room that's unremarkable save for the dead body sprawled on the floor, a wooden stake driven through his back.

Tonks crouches by the body, inspecting it closely with a frown, while Straub looks around the rest of the room. It's simply furnished—sofa and armchair, a TV, a few shelves holding ornaments, and a magazine rack by the armchair with copies of the _Quibbler_ and a few Muggle magazines.

"He's been dead over twelve hours," Tonks says. "Evans was still in Azkaban six hours ago, but I suppose it's still possible he did it if he's gone back in time."

"We can find out right now," Straub replies, going over to one of the shelves. Sat between two moving figurines of pole dancers is a video camera. "This thing is on."

He picks it up and Tonks comes over, standing by him so they can both peer down at the screen on the camera. It takes a minute for Straub to figure it out, but they soon have a video playing of Cyrus' death.

"Shit," Tonks says when it's over.

"That was the Azkaban warden."

"Shit," Tonks swears again. "What the hell is a trickster anyway? Is she mental?"

"They're demigods according to folklore," Straub tells her. "Like Loki from the Norse legends. Big on deadly pranks."

"And Macleod thinks a _demigod_ was working at Azkaban?"

"They have had four weird deaths in the last few months. Since Filidei's been working there, but they blamed Evans for them."

Tonks looks at the body, expression sceptical. "You're telling me a demigod can be killed by a wooden stake?"

Straub shrugs. "You heard Macleod in the video. It was coated in the blood of one of the dead prisoners, one of Filidei's victims. Maybe it's a special requirement, gives the stake power over them."

"No. We don't know Filidei was responsible anymore than we know Evans was responsible for those deaths. Either could of done it, neither could have done it. And I'm sorry, but I don't think demigods work in wizard prisons to kill people already paying for their crimes, and if he was a demigod, wouldn't his death be... I don't know. More dramatic?"

Straub shrugs. "I don't know. But it obviously wasn't Evans, so are we handing it over to someone else or still working it because of the connection anyway?"

"See what the boss says," Tonks replies. "He might put us together with Hammond and Clarkson since they've been working the Azkaban deaths."

*PSM*

The Assistant can't help himself. Harry's asleep, curled up as a fox next to Polaris, and the Assistant isn't going to pass up the chance of breaking his time loop, even if it does bring the risk of universal destruction. He's not completely against the possibility of that, either, if he's honest. If the universe implodes and he ceases to exist then he might not have to spend the rest of eternity being tortured in hell.

He tries not to get his hopes up about the whole thing, but he's still disappointed when he lays a hand on the fox's back and nothing happens. Nothing universal, anyway. Harry does jerk awake with a burst of magic that makes the rock around them rumble while his teeth latch onto the Assistant's hand.

"Son of a bitch!"

Harry lets go and turns back to a human.

"What was that for?" the Assistant demands even as he heals the wounds. Harry doesn't answer and the Assistant's anger fades as he realises Harry's starting to hyperventilate, shrinking in on himself. Only then does the Assistant remember that Harry's been brutally tortured and then spent eight years in prison instead of somewhere he could recover properly. "Harry, calm down. It's alright, you're safe here. I'm not going to hurt you."

Instead of answering, Harry reaches for Polaris and hugs the cat to his chest, burying his face in her fur and trembling as he gets his breathing under control. Its ten minutes before he calms down enough to say, "The universe didn't end."

The Assistant stares at him, confused for a moment, then realises he's referring to the potential disaster of the two of them touching. "No. It didn't."

"You did it on purpose."

The Assistant shrugs. "Couldn't pass up the opportunity to break my loop, could I?"

He inspects his hand, checking it's fully healed and there's only a lingering soreness left, then he looks at Harry as the other man transfigures a pebble into a bowl which promptly fills itself with cat biscuits. He sets down Polaris, who stretches before trotting over to the bowl and eating.

"Are you going soon?" the Assistant asks. "I thought you'd have left earlier to save Draco. I would have."

"People were dying in Azkaban."

The Assistant blinks, caught off guard by his non-sequitur. "What? I mean, when?"

Harry has to think about that before answering, "Recently. After Mum's birthday. They said it was me."

"Was it?"

"I don't know."

"Who's the they that said it was you and why did they say it?"

"The guards. There was one in my dreams. He said the cook and warden was giving me sedatives so he put them in comas and then people were dying and he said it was my fault. The other guards said it couldn't have been anyone else. Sometimes the prison shakes and I can't help it. That's always happened. My magic is volatile and I can't help it." He pauses, hands clenching in his lap, shoulders hunched. When he speaks again his voice is almost a whisper. "I don't want to kill Draco."

The Assistant smiles, not even caring if Harry sees it through Polaris, though the cat's eyes appear to be fixed on the food. _This_ is something he knows.

"Tell me: did you use much magic in Azkaban? For anything?"

"No. I was in prison, I wasn't supposed to."

The Assistant shakes his head. He would never allow himself to be imprisoned, not as penance in any case. He'll let himself stay in prison for other purposes, but never because he thinks he deserves it. No earthly prison sentence will do justice for the crimes he's committed through his lifetimes, so there is no point in letting himself be punished like that when there are more effective means of self-flagellation. If someone has the skills to trick him into a magical binding and keep him caged, then fine, but if he can escape then he will.

"Then yeah, you probably killed them. But I can help you keep from hurting Draco," he adds and Harry's head snaps around to fix blind eyes on him.

"How?"

"Stay with me. If you can really travel forward in time then it won't hurt Draco any for you to not go now. Stay with me and I'll teach you how to control your magic."

Harry turns his head away. "You can't."

The Assistant smiles. "Harry, I've spent more time using magic than anyone alive, I've spent several timelines actively studying magic; there is no one in existence now or ever before who knows magic like I do."

"But it's different. You told me that once. My magic is different to yours."

"Is it?" the Assistant asks with interest. "How? Can you do things I can't? Can I do things you can't? I do consider this even more reason for you to stay, you realise. Even now nothing fascinates me more than magic."

"Do you really think you can stop me hurting people by accident?"

"No promises," the Assistant tells him warningly, "but yeah, I reckon I've got a good chance at helping you."

Polaris finishes eating and starts cleaning herself. The Assistant watches her, waiting for Harry to make his decision, and contemplates casting a little compulsion magic to make him say yes. He wants the company; he wants the chance to investigate Harry's magic and see if it really is different and, if so, how; and he wants to revel in this knowledge of a future beyond his loop. He's already told Harry to wipe his memory of everything before he goes; he won't be able to keep himself from interfering otherwise. Already he wants to hunt down Preston Yaxley to keep his Bond from being transferred; all it would take is a properly worded letter convincing Yaxley to visit Hogsmeade. But that will only result in Voldemort having his Bond transferred to another Death Eater, so it'll be simpler just to destroy the Horcruxes as soon as possible then kill Voldemort as soon as he rises, but that will drastically change Harry's timeline.

"Alright."

The Assistant pulls himself out of his imaginings. "Sorry?"

"I'll stay."

The Assistant grins. "Brilliant. Okay, so tell me why your magic is supposed to be different to mine..."

* * *

**A/N:** Hey, look who's back.


	15. Summer (Again), Part 2

**Summer, Part 2**

Snape isn't surprised that Michaela Creevey is the first person to ask him about Harry when the news is publicised.

"Sir, if Harry came here and asked you to hide him from the Aurors, would you even though it would put a generation of students in massive danger?"

Snape stands at the front of the classroom and folds his arms over his chest. "I will remind you of what I said in your first class: I will not allow irrelevant subjects in my classroom. Harry is not related to your study of Defence Against the Dark Arts so there is no need to ask me about him. Creevey, put your hand down."

She does, but it doesn't stop her from speaking. "But he's the most powerful wizard in the world and he uses dark arts. Doesn't that mean you should teach us how to defend ourselves against him?"

"Ten points from Ravenclaw for speaking out of turn, Creevey," he says, but a look around the classroom shows that the threat of Harry is something they genuinely fear. Resisting the urge to sigh irritably, he leans against his desk. "Despite what you may have heard, Harry doesn't hurt and kill people on a whim; that's not the kind of person he is. Attack him and he will defend himself; leave him alone and he will leave you alone. If Harry ever turns up at the school, the simplest way to defend yourself is to not do anything to him. Report him to a member of staff—preferably myself, the headmistress, or Professor Potter—and otherwise stay away from him. Now I want your essays on Dementors then open your books so we can move onto revising the Unforgivable Curses."

*PSM*

Lucius sits in the cell that used to belong to August Selwynn and silently seethes. His modified cell resists being turned back to normal by the guard's magic, but without Harry the guards are at least able to get into the cell, and thus drag Lucius out and force him into one of the empty ones. As they said, he's supposed to be paying penance for his crimes not 'indulging in luxury'. Lucius wonders how anyone can consider even his modified cell to be anywhere near luxurious. It isn't even close to how he deserves to live.

Harry's been gone a week. Lucius has heard nothing about him, nor of Draco. Lucius did try to convince Harry to take him along—Draco is his son, he deserves to be involved with saving him—but Harry refused. He did at least let Lucius discuss plans to save Draco, including ways to avoid changing history enough that it would trap Harry—and potentially Draco, who's really all Lucius cares about—in a time loop, and Harry promised to inform Lucius when he saved Draco. With every day that passes and no information comes, Lucius grows more concerned that Harry's failed—or worse, succeeded and neglected to inform him.

*PSM*

"Lachina Macleod?"

Lachina turns away from the bar, her smile fading as she looks at Tonks and Straub. "Aurors. Can I help you?"

"You're under arrest for the murder of Cyrus Filidei."

Lachina's jaw drops. "What? I didn't—"

"Don't bother," Tonks interrupts. "You obviously didn't notice, or maybe you just don't know what one is, but there was a video camera recording the whole thing. We know you killed him. Make this easier for everyone and come along quietly."

"You don't understand. Cyrus wasn't human."

Tonks snorts. "Yeah, we saw. You think he was some kind of trickster demigod. We thoroughly investigated the body and he was definitely human. I'm giving you one last chance before I haul your arse back to the Ministry the rough way. Get up and put your hands behind your back."

"God damnit," Lachina mutters, sliding off the barstool and turning around, ignoring the stares from the rest of the bar patrons as Tonks cuffs her wrists and then walks her out. Neither woman notice the unremarkable looking American man sat at a table with a bottle of beer, a large bowl of M&Ms, and a smug smile.

*PSM*

"Assistant?"

"Mmm?"

"Why do you think I came back so far?"

The Assistant opens his eyes, looking out from the hammock strung across the cave. Nearby, Harry sits with Polaris in a nest of cushions.

"I'm still working on a theory about the workings of your magic, but I think there's a strong chance the reason it's so volatile is because you just don't use it enough, so it finds ways to be used beyond your control. It's possible that happened when you used the Time Turner, overpowering how long each turn represented. The other possibility is Lady Fate interfered."

"You really believe that?"

"Fate? Sure. I don't think there's a personified incarnation walking around, that's just my fondness for the term, but I believe fate exists. Be stupid not to."

"Why?"

The Assistant transfigures his hammock into a large sofa and rolls onto his side, pillowing his head on his arm. "Did I ever tell you about my efforts to save Mum?"

Harry stops petting Polaris and his face turns towards the Assistant. "You said she always dies."

"Yeah. I've locked her alone in empty rooms only for a localised earthquake to bring the room down on her before I could stop it. I've taken her out to the middle of nowhere and seen her killed by freak lightning. Every time I thought I had every possibility covered, something happens to kill her before I can stop it. I've seen the same happen to Cedric Diggory, and Albus Dumbledore. I can never stop their deaths. If that's not fate, what is it?"

"Will you tell me about her? I've heard some stories from James and Sirius and Remus, and I spent ages pretending she was alive, but tell me what she was like with you. Tell me..."

_Tell me what she's like as a mum_, is the unspoken request, and the Assistant does.

*PSM*

Hermione and Snape walk slowly along the path from Hogsmeade to Hogwarts on Saturday morning, Hermione enjoying some summer sun while she gets her daily walk in and Snape simply taking the opportunity to get out of the castle and away from teenagers over-excited by the end of exams and the upcoming end of term.

"Do you think Harry will really be able to save Draco Malfoy?" Hermione asks, arm slipped through his.

"With or without lasting complications?"

"Either."

"I don't know. If anyone could, he could, but that doesn't mean he will."

"If he changes history, would we even know it?" she wonders. "Or would our memories just change and we'd never remember them being different? He could have already changed things and we don't know because we remember the things that happened after the change, but not before."

"Possibly, but if he was going to make changes large enough to create an effect like that, I imagine he'd make things a lot happier than I recall them being. If he went back exactly eight years like we think he has, then he hasn't even killed Dumbledore. He could prevent Sirius Black being killed, stop James from ever being given back to Lucius Malfoy, keep himself from being tortured, and save Draco."

"Do you think—what?" she interrupts herself with a whisper when Snape suddenly stops, holding up a hand and furrowing his brow, head turning slightly.

"There's someone in the trees," he murmurs, slipping his arm free and stepping off the path. Hermione follows him, moving through the trees until they're just out of sight of the path, then they notice a pair of legs sitting stretched out behind one tree. Snape stalks forward, thinking it's a student who's snuck out and intending to scold them, only to reach them and look down to see Michaela Creevey slumped against the tree, face screwed up in pain and arms folded over her stomach, an empty potions vial discarded at her side. Snape doesn't need to ask to know what she's taken and he crouches by her, drawing his wand and sending a Patronus message to Madam Pomfrey, then checking his watch.

"It hurts," Michaela whimpers, tears slipping down her cheeks. "Professor, it really hurts. What's happening to me?"

"I think you've taken a bad hit, Creevey. I need you to keep as still as possible."

"It hurts. Please can you make it stop h-hurting."

"Madam Pomfrey's on her way."

"What's wrong with her?" Hermione asks quietly, crouching beside him.

"Hale's Brew. Creevey, keep still. The less you move, the less damage it'll do."

"Creevey? Is she related to Dennis and Colin?"

"C-cousins," Michaela answers. "Do you know them?"

"I was in Gryffindor a year above Colin. What house are you in?"

"R-ravenclaw."

"You must be smart then. What year?"

"Sixth. I'm a f-freaking g-genius. M-Muggleborn, too."

"Me too. Bit of a surprise finding out about magic, wasn't it?"

Michaela shakes her head. "I k-knew about Colin since I was f-four," she says. "Turned our dog—" She breaks off with a cough that splatters blood over her lips then moans painfully. Hermione picks up her hand, squeezing it comfortingly, and Snape glances towards the castle, silently pleading for Pomfrey to hurry up.

"Professor, am I d-dying?"

"No. When Madam Pomfrey gets here you'll be taken to Saint Mungo's and cured, then you'll be back in class next September to annoy your teachers by questioning everything they tell you."

"Not y-you though."

"No, but I'm sure you and everyone else will be glad to have Professor Lickman back."

"She's a pushover," Michaela says weakly, closing her eyes as her face screws up in pain. "Prefer you."

"You're probably the only one who does."

"Girlfriend does," Michaela counters, squeezing Hermione's hand. "Let you k-knock her up, didn't she?"

Two red spots appear in Snape's cheeks, but Hermione gives a faint smile. "The baby was an accident, but you're right, I do like him. Tell me what you did to your dog."

"T-turned it i-into a c-cat."

Hermione lets out a giggle. "I bet your parents were shocked."

"P-pissed. M-mum's allergic. Had to—had to get..." She trails off with a whine. "God, it hurt s-so much."

"Can't you summon a pain reliever?" Hermione asks Snape, who shakes his head.

"Hale's Brew causes internal damage. Pain relievers will make the healing spells and potions less effective."

"I-idiot," Michaela whispers. "Should've stuck with vodka."

Hermione looks questioningly at Snape, who shakes his head and mouths "Later" to her then they hear a voice calling from the path.

"Professor Snape?"

"Over here, Buckle," Snape calls back, getting to his feet and moving away until he's in sight of the path and can gesture over Pomfrey's apprentice. He's accompanied by a vaguely familiar man in lime green healer's robe.

"Healer McCabe," the man introduces. "We met briefly at the Potions conference last year. Where's the patient?"

Snape shows him and stands nearby as McCabe crouches beside Hermione and casts a Diagnostic Charm over Michaela.

"Hi there. My name's Scott McCabe. What's yours?"

"M-Michaela."

"Can you tell me how long it's been since you took the potion, Michaela?"

She shakes her head slightly and coughs again, bringing up more blood.

"It's been seven minutes since we found her," Snape tells McCabe.

"Alright. Michaela, I'm going to put you under a spell that will make it feel like your torso is in a brace to keep it stiff, but try to move the rest of your body as little as possible. Then we're going to portkey straight to Saint Mungo's."

"'Kay."

McCabe waves his wand in a repeated zig zag over her body from hip to shoulder, then slips his wand back into an arm holster and pockets the empty vial of Hale's Brew before pulling a round disk the size of his palm out of his pocket and taking Michaela's hand, pressing it to the disk. "Three, two, one," he counts down then they both vanish. For a moment the remaining three are silent and then Ellowyn Buckle clears his throat.

"I suppose I'll get back to the castle."

"Inform Poppy about what happened," Snape tells him. "I will see the headmistress."

Ellowyn nods and hurries away. Snape holds his hand out to Hermione to help her up and they walk back to the path as well.

"Is Michaela going to be alright?" Hermione asks him.

"If the healers treat her quick enough and well enough, then maybe. They should save her life, but there might be permanent damage still. Hale's Brew is a vicious potion even when it's properly made."

"What is it? I don't think I've ever heard of it."

"It's a barbiturate, but it destroys the digestive system. Creevey came to me in March saying she'd been taking it and she took some time off for treatment and addiction counselling," Snape tells her as they reach the school gates. "You should probably go home."

"Do you mind if I stay? I'll go to your rooms while you're seeing Professor McGonagall."

"I might be a while," he warns her. "She'll probably ask me to inform Creevey's parents."

"That's fine," she says, and they continue up towards the castle. "But shouldn't that be Professor Flitwick's job as her Head of House?"

"Normally, yes, but because Creevey came to me for help earlier in the year and with my knowledge of Hale's Brew, Minerva asked me to."

"You really must be a much better teacher than before. I can't imagine anyone except the Slytherins going to you for help when I was a student."

"Don't be so sure. Creevey only came to me because she'd figured out I had a drinking problem and decided I would be the most sympathetic towards her addiction. She wasn't lying when she said she's a genius," he tells her as they approach the castle. He notices a familiar figure at the foot of the front steps and clears his throat. "Hermione, I should probably warn you that I haven't told Minerva about the baby yet."

"This should be interesting then."

They reach the steps and McGonagall greets them by glaring at Snape. "You kept that quiet."

"I intended to tell you."

"Before or after it was born?"

"At the end of term."

She glowers at him, he glowers back, and she shifts her gaze to Hermione, expression softening. "It's nice to see you, Hermione, though this is a little unexpected," she says with a brief flick of her eyes to Hermione's belly.

"It was unexpected for us too."

"How far along are you?"

"Twenty-two weeks."

"Well, I'm glad to see you looking well, but I'm going to have to steal my Defence professor back. Ellowyn told me about Michaela Creevey," she says to Snape. "We need to visit her parents."

Snape nods. "I'll just walk Hermione up to my rooms."

"I can manage, Severus. I remember the way. Is the password still the same?"

He nods and she kisses him, smiles at McGonagall, and heads into the castle.

"Are we going?" Snape asks McGonagall, who turns away from watching Hermione. The headmistress nods and they start walking down the path to the gates.

"Severus, did no one ever tell you about Contraceptive Charms?"

Snape stops short, gaping at her with his cheeks going red. "Minerva!"

"Well, I'm sorry, Severus, but that's the second unexpected child you've made and I know your home life wasn't brilliant. I have to wonder if you may have missed out on 'the talk' or whatever they call it these days."

"Minerva, if you insist on continuing this conversation I am going to have to quit immediately and never see you again for the rest of our lives."

"Oh, don't be so dramatic, Severus," she says with a roll of her eyes, carrying on towards the gates. "We're both adults."

"Precisely why we don't need to have this conversation."

"Apparently you do," McGonagall mutters under her breath.

*PSM*

"Hermione?"

Hermione pauses in the hallway, the voice familiar even after seven years without hearing it, and hesitates before turning to face it. Neville stands a short distance down the hall, in the doorway of an office, but he steps out and approaches her.

"Hello, Neville."

"Hermione," he says again, eyes flicking to her stomach then back to her face. "You look... good."

"You too."

He nods, eyes flicking to her stomach again, but he says nothing.

"How are you finding teaching?" she asks him.

"Oh. Um... good. Yeah. It's fun. What about you? Do you enjoy... what do you do?"

"I'm working in the Ministry, and yes, I enjoy it."

He nods and says nothing more.

"Well, it was nice seeing—"

"Who's the father?" he blurts, then flushes but doesn't retract the question. She lifts her chin.

"Severus Snape."

His jaw drops. "Snape? You're—_Snape?_"

"Yes."

"He's old enough to be your father! How can you sleep with _him?_"

"He's younger than my father, and I can sleep with whoever I like. I don't really care about your opinion on the matter, Neville."

His gaze drops yet again to her stomach before lifting to meet her eyes. "You never did, did you?"

Her jaw drops. "How _dare_ you!" she breathes, furious. "You were my best friend. I loved you, Neville. Of course your opinion mattered to me."

"Not enough."

She glares, feeling tears stinging her eyes, and shakes her head at him. "You still don't get it. What I did back then had nothing to do with you. It was my body and my decision."

"And my baby," he says. "Don't say it had nothing to do with me."

She just shakes her head again and turns away, not wanting to discuss it and wishing she'd never seen him, but she can feel his gaze on her back all the way to the end of the corridor.

*PSM*

"How do you do it?"

The Assistant doesn't look away from the _Daily Prophet _as he answers Harry around the lollipop in his mouth. "Practice and the occasional need to line my insides with magic. It's really not that bad once you get past the initial zing."

There's a brief silence then Harry says with complete confusion, "What?"

The Assistant peers around his newspaper to see Harry sat at the edge of the cave, Polaris in his lap, head turned slightly to show the frown on his face.

"You're not talking about my ability to eat an entire box of Acid Pops in the space of a few hours," the Assistant concludes, taking the aforementioned sweet from his mouth. "How do I do what?"

"Not interfere."

"With?"

"Everything. I know I shouldn't but I want to help myself. It's too late to stop my uncle and making my deal, but I could find myself and get off the streets. I could start at Hogwarts at the proper time." He pauses, then continues in an even quieter voice than usual, "I could stop Voldemort before he ever comes back."

"Except then you'd change your own history, cause a paradox, and/or get stuck in a time loop. You couldn't save Draco."

"I might never lose him."

The Assistant shakes his head, forgetting for a moment that Harry can't necessarily see it. "Little Harry might never lose him. You would still have lost your Draco and you'd never be able to save him. For all you know, little Harry might then never grow up to like Draco. You don't always, y'know. All of that," he adds, sticking the Acid Pop back in his mouth and returning his attention to the newspaper, "is assuming you don't destroy the universe by changing your own history."

"You wouldn't care if I did."

"Not if it stopped my time loop," the Assistant agrees. "On the other hand, if it served to only leave me suspended for the rest of eternity, constantly dying and remaking due to the endless vacuum of space, I would have objections. Fortunately, I consider the possibility of such an occurrence to be small enough that I wouldn't mind risking the universe for it."

He hears Harry shift and glances over to see him turning away from the entrance to move further into the cave and sit by the Assistant. "Then how do you resist doing that? I told you everything; you could change things now to try and destroy the universe."

"No good. I've changed things before, caused so many potential differences. My luck and Lady Fate would conspire to interfere and prevent me from making universe-destroying changes. It would have to come from you."

"It's not fair," Harry whispers, and before the Assistant can ask what's not fair, he turns into a fox and curls up in his nest of pillows.

*PSM*

The afternoon of the twenty-fourth finds Snape clearing out the last of his office, still weary from the full moon two nights earlier. The end of term feast is in a few hours and after that he'll be returning home to Coleford. He'll spend the next morning sorting out his bedroom, then in the afternoon he'll help Hermione move in for their trial period of living together, something he has mixed feelings about. Part of him objects to sharing his living quarters even more, particularly his bedroom, even if it is with someone he very much likes and has so far enjoyed spending substantial amount of time with. Another part of him, a part he refuses to consciously admit is the werewolf part of him, is looking forward to it.

Packing up his office feels a little weird, he's surprised to discover. He's seen teachers come and go from Hogwarts, but even when he was teaching Potions he never foresaw a time when it would be him packing up to leave. He always assumed he'd spend the rest of his life miserably teaching children, however long or short that life was. Now he's leaving, almost by choice, and in September he will start lessons in biology at Avicenna Healers' Institute. He's still looking for part time work, trying not to lose his temper with the rejections he's already received, almost certain that every one of them is the result of his condition.

He's just putting the last few ink bottles into a box when there's a knock at the door. He calls for entry and is surprised when Michaela walks in. Though he knows she survived her last hit of Hale's Brew, he hadn't expected to see her again.

"Miss Creevey, what are you doing here?"

"My healer and Professor McGonagall said I could come for the end of term feast, and I wanted to say thank you for saving my life. My healer said if I'd been found about five minute later then they probably wouldn't have been able to stop me dying."

"I'm glad to have found you when I did then. How are you recovering?"

She shrugs. "I'm okay. I've got to regulate my diet and liquidise my food for the rest of my life, but I'm alive."

"And mentally?"

She glances down, scuffing her toe against the floor. "I don't know," she admits quietly. "I'm going to be seeing a psych more often and they've change my anti-depressant, but... they said another dose of Hale's Brew will kill me, so every day I have to remind myself that I don't want to die to stop myself taking it. I want it, but I don't want to die, but I also find it seriously overwhelming to think of dealing with these feelings and the noise in my head for the rest of my life. Even just the rest of the summer."

Snape closes the box he's packing and seals it with spellotape then moves around his desk and leans against it, folding his arms over his chest. "Don't think about dealing with it for the rest of your life, or the rest of the summer, just think about dealing with it for the rest of the day. I know it's hard; trust me, I know and I don't have a mind like yours, and you're going to get sick of hearing people tell you this, but you have to focus on one day at a time. Some days are going to be harder than others and it's never going to be easy, but it will get easier. It might take a while, but it does."

She nods and manages a slight smile. "It really is a shame you're not going to be here next year. Colin and Dennis always told me you were an awful teacher, but you're not all bad."

"Thank you for that high regard, Miss Creevey," he replies dryly, and she grins properly then.

"I'll see you at the feast, professor."

*PSM*

"Okay, magical theory discussion time," the Assistant says, rolling out of his hammock and onto the floor without a wince, crawling over to Harry's nest of pillows. He settles himself in front of Harry, who doesn't appear to have heard him.

"Harry, you awake there?"

He bends to look at Harry's face, but his eyes are shut. The Assistant debates shaking him to try and wake him, but he's reluctant to cause another outburst like the last time he touched Harry. Deciding to wait and see if he rouses later, he turns to Polaris, filling the cat's bowl and then using the makeshift toilet in the corner of his cave, which is just stone carved into a toilet shape, charmed warm whenever he needs to sit on it and spelled empty after every use.

He's halfway through emptying his bowels when Harry shifts. He looks over to see the other man curl up tight, and then the rocks begin to groan. The toilet actually shifts underneath him and he spirals magic around and through it to hold it in place, swearing at Harry as he does. Once he's got his own little corner stabilised, he wraps a cocoon of magic around Polaris, though she appears thoroughly unconcerned by the shifting rocks, then he focuses his attention on Harry. He closes his eyes for a moment, relaxing his body and thinking about what he wants, then opens them again and watches the magic.

This is something that took him a long time to learn. He couldn't do it until he understood magic and how it worked, and even then it took a lot of practice and trial and error before he could alter his sight to see something that shouldn't be visible. It isn't something he does often because it's disorientating, but it's beautiful, especially in a place like Hogsmeade where the concentration of magic in the air is so incredibly thick.

Everything comes alive with colour. The rocks around him glow gently silver, brighter than they are normally but not as vibrant as living organisms. If he could see further out the cave, he knows the trees and plants would be vibrant spots of green and brown, singing with colour and magic that comes from being alive and the magic they soak up from the air. The air itself looks like someone has painted the wind, every possible colour flowing and dancing and twirling around. Polaris is a stillness within it, a gentle pulse of dull grey, and Harry...

Harry is like fire, sucking in the colours around him like oxygen to fuel it and spitting them out as flames of deep purple, crashing waves of black heat driving into the surroundings and causing the localised earthquake, while brilliant mauveine sparks dance around his skin. The Assistant knows that anything attempting to touch Harry at that moment would be burned as if Harry is truly alight, but as the centre of the fire Harry is secure from harm.

It's nearly half an hour before the fire of Harry's magic eases. The blasts of black heat fade and the rocks of the cave go still. Sparks continue to jump and whirl but with less regularity and the deep purple drops from roaring flames to gently burning flickers that don't quite die. The colours of the air around them calm, gently drifting through the cave with the aimless direction the Assistant knows it should, no longer focusing on and burning through Harry.

The Assistant finishes his business on the toilet, cleans himself, then slides to the floor and crawls over to Harry's nest of pillows. Harry sits up at his approach, turning his face towards him while Polaris comes over and settles in Harry's lap.

"That," the Assistant says, "was one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen."

Harry frowns. "What was?"

"Your magic just now."

"What did it do?"

"You had the entire cave shaking. Probably the whole mountain. I've never seen so much power burning through someone at once and you've pretty much confirmed my theory on your magic. It's immense and incredible and I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to teaching you to control it."

He looks over the small fire that burns around Harry once more then closes his eyes, concentrates, and opens them to the normal view of the cave and its contents.

"Will you teach me how to control it now?" Harry asks him.

"Yeah. But a bit of theory education first. Am I right in thinking you probably don't know squat about the actual nature of magic? Where it comes from, how it works, why we can use it when Muggles and squibs can't?"

"It comes from our core, doesn't it?"

The Assistant rolls his eyes. "No. Humans don't have a magical core. Wizards like to think they do because they're arrogant and have a vastly over-inflated sense of self importance. Magic isn't in us, it's around us. And I mean all around us, everywhere, just sitting there like air. It's part of the world. What wizards have that Muggles and squibs don't is an ability to draw in that magic and then expel it in a certain way, like levitating an object. Wizards do have a constant flow of magic moving through them—just a trickle, mind. Squibs have the bare minimum, which lets them see Dementors and the like, but wizards have a slightly larger amount which is what gives us the extended life span. There are actually some Muggles who have that squib-level trickle of magic, but they're ignored by the wizarding community and called crazy by the Muggle community when they start talking about cloaked figures eating souls and what have you.

"But anyway, wizards have the ability to draw that magic in and guide it to a certain effect through the use of spell words, will, and a channelling device—in most cases, a wand. The strength of a wizard is determined by how much effort they put into their spell casting. You'd be surprised at how lazy most wizards are and the amount of spells they sacrifice the ability to do just because they don't put in the effort to learn or cast it properly."

"But not for us."

"No," the Assistant agrees, "but this is also where it gets different. What my older self said about the wording of our deals and how we use magic seems to be true. I asked for the ability to control magic and that's what I got. I can feel and control the magic flowing through me with greater precision than anyone else in the world, so I can make it do things that most wizards can't and with only half the effort and no spell words or channelling devices. If wizards were painters, I'm Michelangelo while everyone else is a toddler with finger paints."

"That's a bit arrogant."

"It's very arrogant," the Assistant agrees. "Also mostly true."

"And what about me?" Harry asks.

"In painter terms? You're throwing buckets of paint around, making a wish, and ending up with the Sistine Chapel. It's impressive but also irritating because I'm up there making calculated strokes with my paintbrush. You've got more magic flowing through you than I've ever seen in a person before and it's constant. That trickle I mentioned the average wizard having—most people have to draw more in when they cast a spell, but you... it's like an unending river persistently smashing its way through you. Or actually it's more like oxygen and fuel constantly feeding your fire because that's how your magic seems to be manifesting currently. When I look at it, I see flames."

"You can see magic?"

"If I try. It's a neat trick, but it was bloody difficult to learn."

"So I need to learn to control all that magic flowing through me?"

"Yes, but the biggest thing is that you have to _use_ it. See, when the magic enters you, it becomes yours and subject to your will. When you don't guide it and command it, it takes the only guidance and command that it can—your emotions. I'll wager that when you're feeling happy, you don't cause localised earthquakes."

"Butterflies."

"Sorry?"

"I conjure butterflies."

The Assistant smiles. "Sounds about right. Creation and beauty, both positive things especially when combined. But if you want to stop it destroying and creating beyond your control, you have to use it. That's why your magic lashed out in Azkaban, judging from what you've told me. Between the lack of use for years, the sudden detox from the sedatives, and dealing with coming back to reality and accepting Draco's death—the magic expelled itself violently. You need to use it a substantial amount everyday to stop that happening."

"Doing what?"

"Anything. Create, destroy, levitate, transfigure, charm, hex, jinx... just use it. I'd suggest putting a permanent glamour over your scars, unless you want to show them off for some reason. Glamours constantly use magic to remain in place. That's why they're time limited for normal wizards; they inject a certain amount of magic when they cast the spell and once that runs out the glamour falls. You could also put a permanent shield around yourself, given how twitchy you are over being touched."

Harry nods and as the Assistant watches a shimmer brushes over his skin, like someone painting him with glue that dries instantly. When it's passed from head to toe, Harry says, "Touch me."

"Am I going to hurt if I do?"

No answer.

"So yes. Here's an idea, fine tune it to respond to people's intentions. If someone just wants to touch you without hurting, then it won't stop them. But if they've got violent intentions, it'll hurt them."

"How do I do that?"

"Will it. Your magic obeys your will, Harry. Command, and it will obey."

Harry frowns, concentrates, then says, "Try now."

A little hesitantly, the Assistant reaches out and brushes his fingers along Harry's cheek. Nothing happens and the Assistant smiles. Then he throws a punch—only for his hand to stop an inch from Harry's face. The Assistant yells, bones in his hand cracking loudly as they break and arm bouncing back as though he'd punched a piece of elastic. He swears loudly and violently even as he fixes his hand then has to spend a minute waiting for the pain to fade away.

"Good shield," he gasps eventually. "Definitely won't punch you again."

"Are you okay?"

The Assistant flexes his hand, testing his manoeuvrability now the pain has gone. "Yeah. I'm alright."

"Why can't I do some things?" Harry asks, clearly taking his word for it and not looking through Polaris to see the Assistant still shaking his hand slightly and wincing. "If my magic obeys my will, why doesn't it do everything I want?"

"Specifications and exactitude. This is the bit that'll take time to teach. Some things require a lot of finesse to do and while you're powerful you're not exactly subtle with your magic. You might be able to smash down doors, but sometimes it's more productive to pick the lock and _that_ is my speciality. Metaphorically speaking, though I'm quite good at literally picking locks as well."

"But there are some things you can't do, aren't there?"

The Assistant sniffs. "I suppose. Nothing's impossible, of course; sometimes it's just hard to find out how to do them. First up, I'm going to teach you an awareness of magic, to know it and feel it like I do, because once you've got that down a whole world of possibilities are going to open to you."

*PSM*

"You never told me James could cook," Hermione says accusingly to Snape the evening after moving into Black Stag House, when the three of them are sitting around the dining table. Dobby is in the kitchen already cleaning the pots and pans, unhappy that he wasn't able to make their dinner as James already started cooking by the time Dobby finished moving Hermione's things.

"I wasn't aware it was something I needed to share."

"Everyone should know about my cooking skills. I spent time and money learning it so we wouldn't poison ourselves and this level of fantastic shouldn't be kept from the world."

"How do your shoulders stand holding up such an inflated head?" Snape asks him and James just grins, digging into his lasagne. "Why are you so cheerful anyway?"

"Why shouldn't I be?"

"You have been surprisingly cheerful all afternoon," Hermione remarks. "Surely me moving in isn't cause for that much happiness in you."

James doesn't look up. Snape narrows his gaze.

"James."

"It's pack," James admits, shrugging apologetically.

"Pack?" Hermione repeats, glancing between the two men. When Snape says nothing, James elaborates.

"Wolf pack. Severus' pack, to be specific. It's what we are and I'm just happy because we're all together."

"We're not werewolves," Hermione points out.

"Doesn't matter. We're pack and so's little Madeleine Rose."

"My unborn child is not 'pack'," Snape growls.

"I don't know, I quite like it," Hermione muses.

"Must you encourage him?"

"Deal with it, Severus," James says. "We're pack and you know it."

Snape grumbles, but doesn't argue with him.

* * *

**A/N:** Three more chapters to go, folks. I'm looking forward to it; can't wait to see your reactions to what's going to happen at the end of this fic.


	16. Autumn (Again), Part 1

**Autumn, Part 1**

Harry stands in the middle of Hogsmeade High Street and feels the people moving around him. It's mid-October and his months under the Assistant's tutelage has given him greater abilities with magic than he ever realised he was capable of, and although he remains blind, he has perfected the skill of using magic to 'see', using it almost like echolocation by feeling the magic in the air and how it interacts with the surrounding objects. He can't determine facial expressions of people, nor read anything that doesn't have raised lettering, nor know details like the colour of an object, but he can feel his surroundings with enough skill to navigate himself as successfully as a seeing person. He's also fine-tuned the ability well enough to sense the way magic flows through a wizard and he discovers that magic around part-humans like werewolves feels distinctly different.

He learns how to precisely imitate the abilities of a Metamorphmagus, how to use Legilimency and manipulate memories with finesse, and how to break through anti-Apparition wards. Curing illnesses remains beyond his capabilities, but he can heal injuries of even the worst severity on himself or others, even old ones that have long scarred over. He repairs all the scars left on him by his torture. It leaves him with clear patches of skin, but he soon fills them with more runes; he isn't leaving any part of himself unmarked and risk having his magic suppressed ever again. He has to keep the scars of the faded Dark Mark, however, and the lightning bolt on his forehead, as both are curse scars that can't be healed by any human magic.

He could also, if he wanted, rebuild the magical nerves in his left eye and duplicate them to his right to restore his vision, but he doesn't yet. He wants Draco's face to be the first he sees with his own eyes.

"You're leaving today, aren't you?" the Assistant asks, standing beside him. Harry nods. The Assistant sighs. "It's been fun the last couple of months. Novel, which is something I don't experience a lot. Gonna miss you."

"You won't remember it."

"True. Where do you want to do it?"

"Here."

The Assistant raises an eyebrow even as Harry shifts his grip on Polaris so he can reach into his shirt and pull out the Time Turner hanging on a chain around his neck.

"Don't you think it'll be better to do it in the cave where you can be sure there's no one standing in the spot where you'll appear?"

Harry thinks about it then shakes his head. The Assistant shrugs and takes a step away. "Best of luck to you, Harry. I hope you save him."

"Thanks."

Harry vanishes from the Assistant's view and the Assistant turns and walks away. By the time he reaches the door of the Three Broomsticks, he's frowning, trying to remember what he's spent the last few months doing and why he has the odd sensation of losing a friend.

Harry waits until the Three Broomstick's door has swung shut behind the Assistant then makes sure he's got a firm grip on Polaris and carefully turns over the Time Turner hourglass eight times. Not looking through Polaris' eyes, he doesn't have the sensation of darkness closing in on him this time, but the sensations he feels from the magic is that of being trapped in a rapid whirlpool, the magic flowing and whirling around him until it eventually slows and stops, and he once more feels out the shops, houses, and people of Hogsmeade village.

And the Time Turner breaks.

*PSM*

In the Ministry of Magic's Department of Mysteries, every Time Turner they have shatters.

*PSM*

Harry cries out, feeling tiny shards of glass and sand spill through his fingers. He tries to repair it, but each individual piece of sand and glass feels like it's wrapped in a magic void, a minuscule bubble of space which the magic refuses or is unable to penetrate. He gasps in a shaky breath and tells himself he doesn't need it, but it does little to calm him and he drops his invisibility. The people nearest to him jump and cry out in surprise, but as he turns the shocked cries turn to scared shrieks and he hears someone shout, "It's Harry Evans!" and then there's a moment of chaos.

Amidst it, he hears a familiar voice call his name and turns towards the person it's coming from. Around him the rest of the people settle down a little, seemingly calmed by the individual approaching Harry without fear. Harry can feel them standing and watching, a circle several feet away from him while the one person cautiously comes closer.

"Harry, is that you?"

"James."

The magic around him, Harry notices, is different than around other people, with a stream of it flying away from his chest and off into the distance. It takes Harry a moment to realise that it must be his Animancupium Bond.

"Harry, what are you doing here?"

"What's the date?"

"The fifteenth. Of October, two thousand and five. Harry—"

The noise that comes out of Harry's mouth then is almost inhuman in its grief and several people slap their hands over their ears. Even Polaris reacts, meowing unhappily and squirming out of Harry's grip, jumping to the ground and streaking away to hide under a table outside the Three Broomsticks. Harry barely notices, collapsing to his knees as the air around him alights with magic, purple and black flames larger than the buildings around him flaring around his body. James staggers back, tripping over his own feet and then skittering back on his arse, staring with his mouth hanging open at the flames, while others scream and run. The ground groans and cracks appear, splintering outwards with Harry at their centre, while the windows of every building in the village shatter inwards and the grey sky overhead darkens as the clouds thicken and lightning sparks through them.

*PSM*

Snape is on the sofa of Black Stag House, giving a foot massage to a very heavily pregnant Hermione when James Apparates directly into the living room, sat down as though he just fell.

"James? What's—"

"Harry," James gasps, scrambling to his feet. "Severus, Harry's in Hogsmeade right now. You have to come."

Snape's up in an instant. "I'll be back," he says to Hermione, who just nods, and then Disapparates. He reappears in Hogsmeade and doesn't even have to ask where Harry is. The high street is almost empty of people now, all of them hiding inside, or Disapparated away, or run to Hogwarts. Rain splashes down over the village and lightning flashes overhead, letting Snape see Harry, knelt alone in the middle of the village at the centre of a spiderweb of cracks in the ground, bent over with his forehead pressed to the concrete and his hands tangled in his hair.

Snape approaches slowly, calling Harry's name but getting no response.

"Harry, it's your dad."

Still nothing. He continues approaching anyway, aware of James following a little way behind with his wand drawn. Snape doesn't take out his own; he knows it will do him no good if Harry does, consciously or not, attack him. If the devastation around him is any indication, Harry's power has only become more dangerous during the months he's been missing.

"Harry, it's your dad," he says again as he gets closer. "I'm not going to hurt you."

He crouches down in front of him, reaches out, then pauses. "Harry, I'm going to put my hand on your shoulder," he tells him, waits a moment, then lightly rests his hand on the soaked robe. Harry's breath hitches and Snape tenses, but doesn't remove his hand, and nothing happens.

"I couldn't save him."

The words are so quiet Snape doubts he'd have heard them without a werewolf's enhanced hearing.

"Tell me what happened, Harry," he says softly.

"I went back," Harry whispers. "I went back to save Draco, but the Time Turner went too far and then the Assistant taught me how to use magic and I tried to come forward, but it went too far again and it broke and I can't get anymore and I can't save him."

Hands untangle from his hair and Harry lifts his head to stare blindly at Snape, tears on the left side of his face mingling with the rain that's starting to ease. His skin is clear of scars, presumably hidden under a glamour. "Why?" he asks in a desperate whisper. "Why won't fate let me save him?"

"I don't know, Harry."

A crash of thunder disguises the crack of Apparition, but the lightning shows half a dozen Aurors appearing in the street some ten feet away. Snape unconsciously tightens his hand on Harry's shoulder and Harry looks around directly at the six newcomers.

"Who's that? Where's everyone else gone?"

"That's Aurors. As for everyone else, I think they've fled. You have half destroyed the village. You probably scared them."

There's a pause then the ground under them begins to seal back together and windows and glass doors repair themselves. A minute later, the entire village looks as if nothing happened, save for the people still hiding and the unnatural thunderstorm.

"Dad?"

"Yes?"

"I lost Kiwi," Harry says in a small voice that makes Snape want to pull him into a hug. He settles for shifting his hand to Harry's hair and stroking it comfortingly.

"You left her in McGonagall's office. I have her, at home. I kept her safe for you."

He expects Harry to summon the bear, but he doesn't. A black cat comes trotting over from under one of the tables outside the Three Broomsticks and Harry picks her up then gets to his feet. Snape does too, but when Harry turns and steps towards the Aurors, who stiffen and clutch their wands, Snape grabs his arm.

"Harry, what are you doing?"

"They're here to take me back to Azkaban."

"You don't know that. You just wrecked Hogsmeade; they're more likely to curse you."

"No, they won't," Harry says with quiet confidence. He takes another step towards them and Snape tightens his grip.

"Harry, don't. You don't need to be in Azkaban."

"I killed people. I'm a criminal."

"So have I," Snape growls, "but you still made the Wizengamot let me go free. Why do you insist on locking yourself up?"

"I deserve it."

"You don't. Don't you think the torture you suffered was punishment enough for the things you did? And the eight years you already served in prison?"

Harry turns his head to look directly at him, almost as if he can actually see it despite the unfocused gaze. "I don't have anywhere else to go."

For a moment, Snape's grip tightens on Harry's arm and the words "You can come home with me" are on the tip of his tongue, but an image of Hermione flashes through his mind, belly huge with the child she carries, and as his gaze flicks over the village he sees, for a moment, the shattered windows and the cracked earth, imagines the villagers and visitors who must have fled in terror before Snape arrived, and the words die before ever leaving his mouth. His hand slips from Harry's arm and he stays where he is as he watches Harry walk the rest of the distance to the Aurors.

"Severus?"

He doesn't look around as James comes up beside him. "I think I'm making a mistake with him again."

"Then stop it."

Further ahead the Aurors are exchanging looks and Snape thinks they don't really want Harry in Azkaban either.

"Severus, stop it. Whatever it is you think is the mistake, stop it. Do something different."

"It's him or Madeleine. If I offer him a home, I put Madeleine in danger and she hasn't even been born yet. I can't put an unborn child in danger."

"Sev-"

"I should get back to Hermione," he says, and Disapparates.

*PSM*

Annabeth stands beside Dayton outside of Azkaban, watching the jetty jutting out from the island and trying not to fidget. She's the warden now, having taken the position when no one else wanted it.

"Why are we doing this?" Dayton asks.

"Because the head of the DMLE is too scared to tell Harry Evans what he can and can't do."

"And when Evans starts killing the other prisoners again? Or are we really supposed to believe that he accidentally killed the last four and isn't going to do it again, despite nearly wrecking Hogsmeade as soon as he shows up?"

"They said he put it back together."

"He going to put prisoners back together too?" Dayton mutters. Annabeth doesn't bother replying.

A few minutes later two figures appear on the jetty and walk forwards to meet them. Harry hasn't changed at all since the last time Annabeth saw him, save for the fact he's wearing simple green robes instead of prison issue ones, and carrying a black cat. Beside him, Tonks is sporting her favoured bubblegum pink hair and she stops a step behind Harry.

"All yours," she says to Annabeth, spares a nod for Dayton, then turns and walks away again.

"You can still walk away from here, Evans," Dayton says. "You know we can't hold you."

Harry says nothing.

"If I tell you there are no pets allowed in the prison, are you going to lose the cat?" Annabeth asks. Harry's answer is to hold the cat tighter. Annabeth sighs and steps forward, gently wrapping a hand around his arm. "Watch the step," she warns as Dayton taps his wand to the prison entrance to make it swing open. She guides Harry inside, stands aside as Dayton swipes him with a Secrecy Sensor, runs through the usual booking process, skipping the full body search—remembering, no doubt, when another guard was nearly killed after trying to do one eight years ago when Harry was first imprisoned—and then Annabeth takes his arm again and leads him through to the Dead Block.

The cells once belonging to Emmett Moon, August Selwynn, Jason Gibbons, and Thomas Tiernan have been filled and a hush comes over the block as Annabeth leads Harry along it to the double sized cell on the end. Lucius, in what was August's cell, is the first to scramble out of his bed and up to the bars, pressing his face against them to peer out at Harry, but Cassandra Derrick is the first one to speak.

"Holy shit, is that Evans?"

"Oh crap," moans JD Leziate from the middle cell. "Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap. We're all dead."

"Don't start, Leziate," Annabeth calls, tapping her wand to the cell bars to make them slide open. "In you get, Evans."

Harry steps inside, but as the bars slide shut behind him he turns and looks out at her. She wonders if it's just her imagination that his gaze seems more focused than she remembers it being before.

"Where's Lucius?"

"Down there. We moved him when you broke out. This is prison, Evans; you're not supposed to live it in luxury, and I'd like it if this cell was put back to normal and split in two again. I don't want you sharing."

He doesn't reply. She leaves, ignoring the questions from the other prisoners and fully expecting to get a report by the next morning that Lucius and Harry are back in the same cell.

*PSM*

Lucius stays up all Saturday night waiting for a black fox to appear in his cell, but it never comes. He sleeps intermittently the next day and spends the rest of the time half tempted just to yell down the block at Harry, demanding to know whether he saved Draco or not, but he won't give in to such indignity just yet. The fact that Harry's here, alone and willingly letting himself be locked up again, doesn't bode well for Draco's life, nor does the fact that Harry spends most of Saturday night crying, but Lucius refuses to give up all hope of the possibility until he hears confirmation from Harry himself.

But when midnight comes and goes on Sunday night, Lucius' patience runs out and he goes to the bars of his cell, pressing close to them.

"Evans!" he hisses, loud enough for his voice to carry but not to wake the rest of the prisoners. He knows Harry's still awake because he can hear him crying again. "Evans, get over here."

He waits a minute, but gets no response. When he calls again, he hears the bed creak in the next cell over and Chris Cashore's gruff voice call tiredly, "Give it up, Malfoy. Just have a bleedin' wank like the rest of us make do with. Your butt boy ain't answering."

Lucius doesn't dignify the remark with a response and retreats to his own bed, climbing in and glaring angrily at the ceiling for an hour before finally falling to sleep.

*PSM*

Hermione waddles—and it is a waddle, much to her chagrin, but she's huge and incapable of doing much more than a waddle—into the dining room and lowers herself into a chair, looking over Snape, who's slouched in another chair with his head bent forwards and resting on the table.

"Severus, you need to stop beating yourself up over this. It's been two days."

"He's my son."

"And Madeleine's your daughter."

Snape snarls, sounding like the wolf he'll turn into that night, and lifts his head to growl, "I shouldn't have chosen one over the other."

"Harry wanted to go to Azkaban, Severus."

"Because he thought he had nowhere else to go. I could have offered him a home. I could have at least taken money from his Gringotts account and bought a home for him even if he didn't live here. I should have done _something_ instead of letting him go back to that place."

"What makes you so sure he'd have even accepted? He insisted on prison after Draco died; he probably would have insisted on it now when he failed to save him."

"I'll never know, will I?" he says and thumps his head back down on the table. Hermione doesn't have the energy to argue with him and gets up, intending to go and lounge on the far comfier sofa, only to hear a slight popping noise.

"Wha- oh!"

Wetness spills down her legs and Snape jerks his head up, opening his mouth to speak then noticing the wetness seeping through Hermione's robe.

"Is that—are you—is it—"

"Yes."

Snape leaps to his feet, face white. "What do I do?"

"Help me upstairs then call Ann, just like we talked about."

Snape nods, taking her arm and wrapping his own around her waist to assist her out the room and towards the stairs, heading up to their bedroom, which now has a double bed replacing the two singles that used to be in it. James sulked about no longer being able to slip into Snape's room to sleep near him whenever the fancy took him, but while Hermione is fine with most of the unusual parts of Snape and James' Bond, she doesn't want James sneaking in to sleep in the same room as her.

With help, Hermione changes out of her robe and into her nightie then climbs onto the bed, letting Snape prop the pillows behind her before sending him off to call her midwife. When he gets back, he's instantly beside her, hands twitching nervously.

"She'll be here soon. What do you want me to do?"

"First I want you take your Wolfsbane Potion before we both forget about it, then call my mother."

He blinks at her, then swears. "Baby couldn't have waited one more day?" he mutters, hurrying out the room. She hears the attic ladder fall down and him climbing up. They put Space Expansion Spells on it to make it reasonable to set up his lab there and refurbished the third bedroom into a nursery.

He's back in two minutes with her mobile phone. She bought one when she realised Black Stag House wasn't hooked up with a phone line and she no longer had a way to contact her parents or Enfys, who doesn't have a floo. He frowns at it as he navigates it, but manages to get into the contacts list and call her mother without needing help, lifting it to his ear and pacing as it rings, shooting her half-panicked glances every so often. She closes her eyes so she doesn't have to see them and grimaces as the muscles all around her abdomen and back cramp up.

*PSM*

James is just starting a seventh year class when a silvery ball of light soars through the window, interrupts the lesson to materialise as a silver doe in front of James and announce in Snape's voice, "It's started."

He relaxes, glad that the panic he's been feeling through their Bond for the past fifteen minutes isn't due to any problems. As the doe fades away he glances at his students and sees Michaela Creevey with her hand in the air. She speaks the moment his gaze lands on her.

"That was Professor Snape, wasn't it? Is his girlfriend having the baby?"

"Yes."

"Cool."

"I heard his girlfriend is, like... twenty or something," says Emma Welsh, "and she was a student."

"Loads of people were students, stupid," Michaela retorts.

"Hey, there's no need for name calling," James scolds. "Let's get back to the lesson."

"True though, ain't it?" Emma insists. "Snape's an old pervert."

"Welsh, be quiet," James snaps. "Severus Snape is in a relationship with a consenting woman and their respective ages are irrelevant and none of your business. I will not have you condemn him for being a loving relationship. Get back to work, all of you."

*PSM*

"Severus, get _out_."

Snape reluctantly heads for the bedroom door, but pauses before leaving to turn towards James. "You do anything she needs, and don't use Silencing Charms on your room; I want to be able to hear everything."

James nods, then shoves him out before Hermione throws something at him, as she looks ready to do. Snape scowls as he makes his way into James' room instead, shutting the door and putting up the various locking and protection spells required for a werewolf, then strips and paces restlessly until the change comes over him.

When it's done, he gets up, stretches, then pads over to the wall that separates James' room from his own, pressing against it as he lies down and whines softly, listening to the noises from the other room. He can hear Ann questioning Hermione, checking if she's felt any changes with the moon rising, and is glad to hear Hermione say she feels no different.

"Are you sure it's safe for him to stay in the house?" he hears Linda, Hermione's mother, ask. "Shouldn't he be somewhere else while he's a werewolf?"

The Grangers have known for a few months now about him. Ben, surprisingly, has less trouble dealing with Snape being a werewolf than he does with the fact that Snape is twenty years Hermione's senior, but Linda doesn't take it quite so sedately. She isn't outright hostile, but it's clear that his condition scares her to some degree.

"He's fine, Mum," Hermione says, sounding like she's speaking through clenched teeth. "He took the potion I told you about; he's harmless."

"Are you sure, Hermione?"

"Yes! I've spent entire full moons with him, Mum. He's. Harmless."

Snape huffs. It's nice that Hermione's defending him even in the middle of labour pains, but he resents being called harmless. True, he wouldn't attack anyone in the house, but that doesn't mean he couldn't.

*PSM*

James is in the bathroom when he hears Linda shriek. He curses, hurriedly shakes himself off and zips up, and rushes out without washing his hands, but when he barges into the bedroom Hermione's alone with Ann. He hurries downstairs instead, where he finds Linda staring at the fire, in which Narcissa's head floats.

"Bugger," he mutters. "Linda, go upstairs. It's fine."

Linda turns slowly towards him. "There's a head in your fireplace," she says in a whisper.

"I know. I can explain it later. You should go up to Hermione."

"Hermione. Yes. I'll... Hermione."

She walks away without looking back at the fireplace, muttering about heads, and James calls for Dobby to make a pot of tea to take up to the woman before he goes over to kneel before Narcissa.

"Why is there a Muggle in your house?"

"It's Hermione's mother. She's in labour."

Narcissa's mouth tightens. "Then you wouldn't be able to come over right now."

"I'm sorry. Severus wants me here and it's the full moon, so I really shouldn't leave. Did you want something in particular?"

"Nothing that can't wait a day, but I would appreciate it if you would come over tomorrow when you've finished at work."

"Sure, not a problem. I'll see you then."

*PSM*

Snape can't help pawing at the wall and whining when he hears Hermione finally giving birth. He hates being stuck in this room as an animal while his daughter is being born, separated from him by a single measly wall. All he can do is listen as Hermione grunts and screams, with Ann encouraging her along and Linda speaking soothing words.

Then it's over and he hears a baby cry, and without even thinking about it he sits back on his haunches, lifts his head, and howls.

*PSM*

Hermione relaxes back against the pillows, a smile spreading over her face, and holds out her hands for the baby Ann is holding. The midwife passes it over, looking slightly unnerved by the fading howl coming from the next room, and Hermione holds the little girl against her chest, looking down at her.

"You hear that?" she says softly. "That's your daddy."

*PSM*

Snape listens to Ann declare the baby in good health and showing no signs of being a werewolf, gladly thumping his tail at that, and listens to the aftermath of the birth and Ann leaving, then Linda goes downstairs and he hears Hermione say, "James, can you bring Severus in?"

Snape's up on all fours in an instant, ears perked up.

"Sure?" James asks, and Snape growls at him for not immediately doing as Hermione asks.

"I want Madeleine to know that she doesn't have to be scared of her daddy just because he's a werewolf. He won't hurt her. Bring him in."

"Alright."

Snape moves over to the door, waiting impatiently for James to approach and bring down the spells then open the door. He noses past as soon as the door's open, trots down the hall to his own bedroom and slows as he enters, keeping his footsteps soft as he pads over to the bed, managing to remember that even if he won't harm them he should appear as harmless as possible when approaching a newborn baby. Hermione watches him, Madeleine held in her arms, but lays the baby down on the bed as Snape comes up to it. He sits beside the bed then shuffles forwards and rests his head on the covers, letting his nose brush against the tuft of black hair covering Madeleine's head. She makes a small noise, but otherwise doesn't react and he pushes his head forwards more to rub fur against hair, letting out a soft whine while his tail wags behind him completely against his will.

*PSM*

James pulls his head out of the fireplace and rubs at his eyes, yawning. It's little after eight in the morning and he's just finished talking to McGonagall, who told him to take a day off to rest. He's grateful for it; Hermione didn't given birth until almost three in the morning and after that James was unable to sleep because Snape sat up the rest of the night, never once taking his eyes off Madeleine until he started to turn back into a human.

He crawls onto the sofa, his own bed currently occupied by Linda, and sleeps until noon, when he's woken by Madeleine crying. He doesn't move, just listens to the movement overhead and soon after the crying stops. He sleeps again and wakes a few hours later to Hermione showing out her mother.

"How are you?" James asks when the door's shut and Hermione notices him awake.

"I'm good. Glad to have her out, I can tell you that."

He chuckles, sitting up and stretching.

"I'm going to take a bath," Hermione tells him. "Severus and Madeleine are both asleep and he'll wake if she cries, but can you keep an eye on her anyway?"

"Course. Just let me use the toilet first."

He relieves himself, goes to his bedroom and calls for Dobby to make him a coffee and sandwich while he casts a Cleansing Spell on himself and puts on some clean robes, then looks in on Snape and Madeleine before heading down to the dining room. He reads that morning's paper as he eats the sandwich Dobby made him, and by the time he's finished Hermione's out of the bath and Snape's waking up, and he has no more excuses to put off going to see Narcissa.

He doesn't know what she wants to talk to him about, but he's not sure it's going to be anything good. Their relationship has been deteriorating over the last couple of months, and James knows that's mostly his fault. He also knows why and now that Madeleine's been born, he knows he can't carry on with Narcissa. As Hermione's pregnancy progressed, James realised that he wanted to start a family of his own and Narcissa will never be able to give him that. It pains him, because he really does enjoy having a relationship with her and he thinks he might even love her, but he wants a child of his own more.

Narcissa is reading in the drawing room when he gets to Grimmauld Place and she sets aside her book with a slightly raised eyebrow. "You're earlier than I expected."

"Minerva gave me the day off," he explains, sliding into his favourite chair. "The baby didn't come until three this morning so I was up all night, spent most of the day catching up on sleep."

"How is the baby?"

"Good. Healthy. No signs of werewolfery. Severus looked like he couldn't quite believe she was real when he first held her this morning."

"Does she have a name?"

"Madeleine Rose Granger-Snape."

"I'm glad all is well. Shall I call for some tea?"

James nods and Narcissa calls for Pippin. They make small talk while they're waiting for the tea and only once they've both got cups in hand does Narcissa finally say, "James, there's something I have to tell you."

James put his cup on his saucer and looks at her, hoping his face doesn't betray his guilty hope that she's going to break up with him, thus saving him from having to do it.

"I'm pregnant."

James drops his cup then leaps up, swearing violently as hot tea scolds his legs. He fumbles his wand out to vanish the liquid, but accidentally vanishes his robe. Narcissa picks up her own wand and spells away the liquid in his trousers then casts a spell that soothes the burning skin underneath, and summons Pippin to clean up and take away the cup and saucer that fell to the floor. Only when that's done does James sink back into his seat, staring at Narcissa.

"But I thought you couldn't."

"I don't recall ever mentioning that to you."

He glances away, clearing his throat. "Lucius told me. I, um... I know how Draco was conceived as well."

Her expression tightens. "Evidently he didn't tell you the full details. I am not infertile, but it's true that my chances of natural conception were very slight. It appears that we've, to use the common term, beaten the odds."

"You're sure?" he asks. "Absolutely certain?"

"Without a doubt. I have been for several weeks."

He straightens in his chair. "Several weeks? Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"Because aside from conception problems, I had a difficult pregnancy with Draco. I am not a young woman, James; my chances of miscarriage are unfortunately high. I wanted to be sure I would reach twelve weeks before I mentioned it." She pauses, then asks, "You haven't mentioned your opinion yet."

"My—it's brilliant!" he cries, grinning and scrambling out of his chair to fall to his knees in front of her, taking her hands in his. "Narcissa, this is amazing."

"And if I said that I think we should marry?"

"Then I would say do you mind waiting a day or two for your engagement ring?"

She smiles, lighting up her whole face in an expression he rarely sees. He surges up, kissing her firmly on the lips, then tugging her to her feet and pulling her into a spontaneous waltz, drawing a laugh from her.

"Careful, Mr Potter. I'm pregnant and high risk."

He immediately brings them to a stop and kisses her again, wrapping both arms around her waist. "I love you."

She pulls back slightly, her smile fading. "James, please don't say that unless you mean it. I'm a Black, I understand marrying for the sake of family, but—"

"I do mean it," he interrupts her. "I'm from an old family too, so I understand why you're saying that, but I wasn't raised with traditional pureblood values and I wouldn't marry you if I didn't love you."

"Even when I'm with child?"

"You won't like it because of your upbringing, but yes, even then. I'd have been involved, assuming you didn't decide I wasn't worth it without marrying, but I wouldn't have wedded you just for the child's sake."

"You're right, I don't like it," she replies honestly. "So it's a good thing you do love me and a good thing that I love you."

He grins and she can't help laughing at such obvious joy.

*PSM*

"Get out."

The fox in Lucius' cell turns into Harry, sitting cross-legged on the stone floor.

"Have you gone deaf?" the older man snarls. "Get out. I don't want you here."

"I couldn't save him."

Lucius clenches his fists, fighting the urge to smack the young man in front of him. "I know," he spits. "I figured as much when you returned here alone and spent a week sobbing in your cell without even having the nerve to come and tell me. You failed. I want nothing to do with you, Evans. I don't want you creeping into my cell, I don't even want you to make it more comfy for me. You are a useless waste of space and I want. You. Out."

Harry gets to his feet. Lucius rises from the bed so Harry's not standing over him, and his six feet towers over Harry's short five foot six frame.

"At least I tried," Harry says. "I went back in time, but the Time Turner took me too far. When I came forward, it came too far again. I want him back more than anything, Lucius. I loved him. I _tried_ and fate interfered, but at least I tried. That's more than you can do."

Lucius steps forward, wishing Harry weren't blind so he could see the fury on Lucius' face. "I would sell my soul if it would get my son back."

There's a pause before Harry replies, voice quiet, "Would you?"

"Yes," Lucius snarls.

"Even if it meant you died? If it brought Draco back, you would sell your soul even knowing that in ten years you would die?"

Lucius steps back, frowning. "What are you talking about, Evans?"

"There's a way, if you're willing. I can't do it; Crowley would never make a deal with me again, not after last time, but the Assistant told me once that demons can bring back the dead. Would you do it? Would you sell your soul and be willing to die to bring back Draco?"

Lucius swallows. It's one thing to say it, but to genuinely consider it... he's seen the prisoners who are victim of the Dementors before they fled, poor soulless husks that usually die within months of being kissed, and he would hate to become that.

But if it brought back his son...?

"Tell me the details of what you're suggesting, Evans. What's this about demons and ten years?"


	17. Autumn (Again), Part 2

**Autumn, Part 2**

Annabeth looks up from her paperwork with a scowl when her office door bangs open and Dayton rushes insides.

"Evans has gone."

Annabeth is surprised to find herself surprised. She didn't realise that she honestly expected Harry to stay after turning himself in. But she's also surprised by Dayton's reaction.

"Why are you bothered? You never wanted him back in the first place."

"Yeah, except he's taken Malfoy with him."

"Shit."

*PSM*

"Severus, are you reading potion recipes to our newborn?"

Snape glances up as Hermione slips onto the sofa beside him, an indulgent smile on her face as she looks at the sleeping baby in the crook of Snape's arm.

"It put her to sleep," he points out. "Besides, she'll be an expert by the time she starts at Hogwarts."

"She's four days old. She can't remember anything you're saying."

"Maybe not consciously."

"Well, I hope you're going to give her a well rounded education. I want her well-versed in _all_ subjects before she starts, not just Potions."

"She will be. She'll be the smartest kid in her year," he says just as there's a knock at the door. "I thought your parents weren't coming over until this afternoon."

"Mum probably couldn't help herself," Hermione replies, getting to her feet and going to the door. "She's probably bought more—" she breaks off with a gasp that has Snape on his feet instantly, tightening his grip on Madeleine.

"Hermione, what is it?"

And then he hears a familiar and extremely unexpected voice say in confusion, "Hermione?"

Hermione steps aside, letting Snape look out and see Harry stood on the doorstep, his black cat held in his arms. His face turns from Hermione to Snape and he frowns.

"Are you holding a baby?"

Snape doesn't answer.

"Can you see?" Hermione asks Harry, who doesn't turn his attention away from Snape and Madeleine.

"No, I just use magic to feel. Why do you have a baby?"

Snape's tongue feels stuck to the roof of his mouth. He never told Harry about the pregnancy during his visit in April, so startled by what he found that he completely forgot to mention it, and Harry vanished before Snape got around to visiting him again. It seemed the wrong time to mention it a week ago when Harry reappeared, but now he finds himself secretly wishing he never had to tell Harry at all.

"It's our daughter," Hermione says, taking the option away from Snape.

"Your... daughter?"

"Mine and Severus'."

Harry's expression remains frustratingly unreadable, but the walls and ceiling of the living room repaint themselves, a river of dark purples and black flowing over the usual light umber, and the air is suddenly filled with the scent of burning wood. Madeleine stirs slightly.

"You had a baby," Harry says quietly and to Snape's ears it sounds like an accusation.

"She's four days old," Hermione tells Harry, "and I think you might be scaring her, Harry."

The scent of burning wood fades and although the colours on the walls don't disappear, they do turn to light shades of blue and white, shifting gently like a shallow stream.

"What's her name?"

"Madeleine Rose Granger-Snape."

"Madeleine," Harry repeats softly. "My sister."

He steps over the threshold and slowly approaches Snape, who stiffens, glancing towards Hermione then back again, but doesn't move away. Harry stops just in front of him and shifts his grip on the cat then lifts one hand, hesitantly reaching towards Madeleine. His fingers brush against her arm and he moves it down to stroke over her tiny fist.

"Are you going to look after her?"

Hermione doesn't answer this time because she and Snape both know that question is for Snape alone. He has to swallow thickly and lick his lips before he can speak.

"Yes."

It's the right answer to the question Harry asks, but he thinks it's the wrong answer to the one he isn't asking.

Harry takes his hand away and steps back. A book appears, floating in the air beside him, and when he touches his fingers to it a droning voice reads, "_Breveton's Extensive Guide to Demons_."

"Harry—" Snape starts, panic bubbling in his chest now, but Harry cuts him off.

"Make sure you look after her," he says, and then vanishes, the walls going back to normal with him.

Hermione comes over and takes Madeleine from Snape. "Can you follow him?"

"I've no idea where he's gone," Snape says weakly. "I don't know anything about where he might be or what he's doing, but I know it's nothing good. Not with that book."

*PSM*

"What about Andromeda?"

"James, I've seen my sister once since she married that Muggleborn. She won't be expecting an invitation."

James frowns, sat in the drawing room of Grimmauld Place. "There must be _someone_ you want to invite, Narcissa. Or do honestly not mind that the only people at your wedding will be Severus, Hermione, and baby Madeleine?"

Stretched out on a lounge sofa, Narcissa shakes her head. "James, I lost many friends when I divorced Lucius. You must realise the faux pas that was, and then he betrayed the Dark Lord, giving the other Death Eater wives reason to turn on me, and after that I was grieving very heavily and then spent a substantial amount of time in psychiatric care. I have no friends, James. It was years before I even cared to go out in public any more than I had to. Severus and Hermione fulfil the witness requirements. They are enough."

"If you're—"

He breaks off and jumps as a wailing alarm sounds through the house. "What the bloody hell is that?"

Narcissa gets to her feet. "It means someone's broken into Malfoy Manor," she says, drawing her wand and silencing the alarm. James scrambles to his feet.

"You're not going there!"

"The house still belongs to me, James."

"Yeah, and you're pregnant. You can't go facing down burglars or vandals or whoever's decided to break in. I'll go."

"You can't enter it without me, not unless you want the house attacking you. I put up all new protection spells before I moved in here."

"Then I'm coming with you at least. Shouldn't we call the Aurors first though?"

"We can handle a few vandals ourselves. I can't see any other reason someone would break in."

She holds out her arm and he takes it, gripping tight and Disapparating on her say, letting her guide him so they go to the same part of the Manor. When they reappear they're in the foyer of the house and the doors to the drawing room at the end of the hall stand open.

"That shouldn't be possible," Narcissa murmurs. James draws his wand, stepping ahead of her as they move towards the doors. "Not unless..."

"This is a surprise."

Narcissa and James stop just inside the drawing room, both lifting their wands. Lucius lounges in an armchair by the fireplace, a glass of whiskey in one hand, wand in the other, and a smirk playing about his lips as he looks them over.

"I'd been led to believe Severus was the one who took James as a Slave, not you, Narcissa. Or is he on loan?"

"What are you doing here, Lucius?"

Lucius knocks back the whiskey and sets the glass on a table then gets smoothly to his feet. He's aged more in the last eight years than James or Narcissa, face showing lines and his hair as much grey as it is white-blond.

"I took it upon myself to seek freedom. I have great plans to enact, but I'm more curious as to what he's doing here."

"He is here because he was with me when the wards alerted me to someone breaking into the Manor."

"Curious that. I notice all the furniture has been charmed with Dust Repellent Spells. You don't live here now."

"Why would I? This house holds nothing more than painful memories for me, Lucius."

Lucius' sunken grey eyes flick around the room. "Yes," he murmurs. "I suppose it does."

"We should leave, Narcissa," James mutters. "We need to call the Aurors."

"I don't think so, James," Lucius says, stalking forwards only for two wands to focus on his face. He stops, but he still looks imperative. "I cannot go back to Azkaban. Not yet, at least. When I've—"

He breaks off. His gaze falls on Narcissa's hand, her left, which holds her wand, and his jaw tightens.

"Yes, Lucius. That is an engagement ring."

His grey eyes lift to Narcissa's ice blue ones. "Who?" he spits. In reply, Narcissa slips her other hand into James', linking their fingers. Lucius' jaw drops, then snaps shut again.

"That's not funny, Narcissa."

"I don't recall implying that it was."

Lucius brings up his wand and snarls a curse at James, who shields then fires one back.

"Narcissa, go! Get help!"

"You'll keep your hands off my wife!" Lucius yells, dodging James' spell.

Narcissa, who turned to leave, whirls back around, firing a curse past James that slams into Lucius side and knocks him onto his arse with a cry of pain.

"I am _not_ your wife," Narcissa snaps. "I have not been for a long time and I never will be again, Lucius Malfoy."

Lucius tries to get to his feet, but grimaces and crumples again, clutching his side. He looks up at the two, face twisted with anger. "This isn't over," he growls, and Disapparates.

James immediately turns to Narcissa, wrapping her in a hug. "We should go. He might come back."

She nods and they Disapparate without letting go of one another.

*PSM*

Harry is already waiting at the bottom of the mountain to the south of Hogsmeade when Lucius appears. He falls back with a groan when he does and Harry sets down Polaris and hurries over to kneel by him.

"What happened?"

"Narcissa hexed me; the muscles in my side are seizing. Fix it."

Harry tugs Lucius' hand away and lays his own against his side, feeling the muscles spasming underneath and driving magic into them to make them stop. Lucius gives a relieved sigh and Harry pulls his hand away.

"She's engaged," Lucius says bitterly, rubbing his side. "To James Potter."

"My dad had a baby with Hermione Granger."

"Am I supposed to know who that is?"

"She was my friend. She was at the house with us after you got me out of the cellar."

"The Mudblood that the Longbottom boy knocked up?"

"Don't call her that."

"It's what she is, and clearly your father has a taste for them. First your mother, now this girl. And young too. I wonder what he bewitched her with."

"He didn't bewitch her."

"Did he tell you that?" Lucius asks. "Your father isn't attractive by any means, Evans."

"He wouldn't do that."

Lucius doesn't bother getting into an argument about it. "Did you get the book?"

"I'm going to kill myself."

Lucius looks at him. "I thought you wanted to get Draco back."

"Dad doesn't want me. He never wanted me. He's going to raise my sister and look after her like he never did to me, so I'm going to do him a favour and make sure he doesn't have me. Then he won't have to worry ever again about the child he never wanted."

Lucius sighs. "Evans, I don't actually care as long as you give me the book first. Even if you've decided your father abandoning you is more important than Draco, I want him back and I'm going to sell my soul to do it. I hope he can at least convince Narcissa that she shouldn't wed James."

Harry doesn't, leaning forwards and pressing a hand to Lucius' chest. Lucius opens his mouth to speak and then crumples to the floor. Harry bends over him, pressing his ear to Lucius' chest to listen for a heartbeat and hearing none. When he puts his fingers to Lucius' throat, there's no sign of a pulse, and he's not breathing either. Rising to his feet, Harry leaves him there and ventures towards Hogsmeade village, but turns up the front path of the first cottage he comes to, his appearance changing as he approaches the front door until he looks like an unremarkable forty year old. He knocks on the door, waits, and when an elderly lady answers it, he says simply, "Come with me."

The lady exits the house, unquestioningly following him back to where he left Lucius.

"Cast a Shock Spell," Harry orders, and the lady draws her wand. She points it at Lucius, carefully speaks a spell, and a crackle of electricity bolts from the want to Lucius, who wakes up with a gasp, body arching off the floor. Harry smiles. "Go home and forget everything that happened after you heard your doorbell. In half an hour, decide to go for a walk down to the bottom of the mountain," he orders the lady, who turns and toddles off while Harry gets to his knees beside Lucius.

"Lucius?"

"What did you just do to me?" Lucius gasps, sitting up and putting a hand to his chest.

"I faked your death."

"_Why?_"

"Because I needed to see if a normal witch or wizard could wake you up from it. Now I know they can, I'm going to fake my own death like that."

Lucius just stares at him.

"I've survived the killing curse twice," Harry continues. "I've faked Dad's death before. They'll examine any body that looks like me really closely in case it's fake or not really dead. I have to do it like this. They examine me, declare me dead, and then they'll bury me. When they do, you can dig me up and use a Shock Spell to wake me up again, then we can bring back Draco."

Lucius opens his mouth, closes it, thinks for a moment, then says, "Don't you have a Horcrux? A piece of your soul stashed away somewhere that keeps you from dying, like the Dark Lord did? Does Severus know about that?"

Harry stiffens. "How do you know about that?"

"Riddle informed me when he took over your body."

"I've hidden it. No one will be able to find it but me, and I'll make a duplicate of the dragon and break it so Dad thinks I destroyed the Horcrux or reabsorbed the bit of soul. Will you do it? Will you help me?"

"Yes."

Harry nods and shifts away slightly. He waves his hand and a piece of parchment, a quill, and an inkpot appear. He inks the quill and puts it to the parchment, writing carefully and making each word raised as he finishes it so he can feel them and know where to put the next line underneath.

"I'll leave a note so Dad will think I committed suicide because I couldn't handle not saving Draco," he explains as he writes. "I don't want him to think it's his fault. And I'll tell him he can give all my money to Madeleine. I won't be able to get at it anymore."

"It is his fault," Lucius points out, but Harry shakes his head.

"No, it's not. I forgave him for everything he did to me. I'm glad he's going to look after Madeleine like a good dad, but he doesn't need me in his life. I'm just making things easier for him by not having me as a constant worry. I'm doing it for him, not because of him. You and me will have to leave the country anyway, to hide from the Aurors, so we'll do that when you've dug me up and we'll bring Draco back and live somewhere nice, alone."

He finishes writing the note and folds it in half then vanishes the ink and quill. Next he creates a glass Antipodean Opaleye dragon then melts it until it's just barely recognisable as having once been a dragon, and puts the melted remains on top of the note, holding it in place.

"One of the villagers will be here soon to find me," he says to Lucius. "You should be hiding by then. Just make sure you find out where I'm buried and come dig me up. Try not to get caught by the Aurors."

"I'll let myself be killed first. I'm not going back to Azkaban."

Harry nods, inhales and lets it out slowly, then closes his eyes and makes a Wish. He crumples over and Lucius waits a moment to see if anything more happens, then checks Harry's pulse and listens for any sound of breathing. He finds none, draws his wand and casts a basic spell to detect life, and it draws a blank.

"Impressive," he murmurs. "Unless you have managed to actually kill yourself."

Uncaring of such a possibility, he picks up the melted dragon, looking it over before placing it by Harry's body, then jabs his wand at the fake suicide note and sets it alight. It burns quickly to leave only ashes which he vanishes, then he goes through Harry's pockets until he finds a shrunken down book. He smiles, stashes it in his own pocket, and picks up Polaris.

"He said I needed a black cat bone," Lucius mutters to the animal. "It was the plant he wasn't sure about, so come on, cat. We're getting my son back."

*PSM*

Snape's hands shake as he lays Kiwi in the coffin with Harry, tucking her under one of his arms. His eyes are dry, but he can't stop his hands from trembling all through the small funeral. He feels curiously numb when he watches the coffin lower into the ground of Godric's Hollow cemetery, placed in a plot next to Lily. James was the one to suggest burying him there, but he could have suggested burying Harry on the moon for all Snape felt on the issue. His son is dead and he has the horrible feeling it's his fault; what does it matter where he's buried?

He doesn't pay attention to the officiant's words, nor to Hermione's tearful eulogy, and even when Madeleine starts crying in James' arms he only spares a thought to acknowledge it. When asked to throw the first handful of dirt onto the coffin, he does so mechanically, and doesn't notice when everyone else moves away until an unknown amount of time passes and James comes up to his side and lays a hand on his shoulder.

"Come on, Severus," he says gently. "Let me take you home."

He turns away at James' guidance, eyes passing over the rest of the graveyard as he goes, but he stops when a figure catches his eye. As he looks closer, all the emotion he's refused to acknowledge since Tonks arrived on his doorstep eight days ago with the news about Harry comes rushing back to him at once. A wolfish snarl leaves his throat, but he barely notices, drawing his wand as he crosses the graveyard in several quick strides, grabs Lucius by the front of his robe and slams him against a tree trunk.

"You did this," he growls, jabbing his wand into Lucius' throat. "_You_ did this."

Lucius chuckles. "Did I? I was rather under the impression he did it to himself. Because of _you_."

Snape digs the wand deeper, but he says no curses or hexes.

"You know it's true, Severus," Lucius says quietly. "He just couldn't stand it anymore that his father didn't love him. It was alright when it was just him and he could believe you were just a bastard who didn't like kids, but now you've got that sweet little baby girl you're going to love and adore, and he realised that you don't hate kids, you just hate him."

"I never hated him," Snape spits.

"Maybe you didn't, but that's what Harry thought. And that's what matters, isn't it?" Grey eyes stare mercilessly into black. "Harry killed himself because of you, Severus. He told me he was going to before he even did it."

"You're lying."

"Am I? You're a far better Legilimens than I am Occlumens, Severus. Why don't you have a look and see—"

"_Legilimens!_"

The mountain at the south of Hogsmeade, Lucius sat on the ground with Harry knelt opposite him, his voice quiet as he spoke. "Dad doesn't want me. He never wanted me. He's going to raise my sister and look after her like he never did to me, so I'm going to do him a favour and make sure he doesn't have me. Then he won't have to worry ever again about the child he never wanted."

Snape yanks himself out of Lucius' mind before he sees anything more. He catches a glimpse of Lucius' smug expression through his tears before he whirls on the spot and Disapparates.

*PSM*

"Severus! Severus, stop, where are you going?"

"Leave me alone, James."

"Severus—"

Snape whirls in the middle of the Hogsmeade high street, robes fluttering around him as he glares at James, who stops abruptly, hand going to his wand and expression wary.

"Leave. Me. Alone," Snape orders. "Don't come after me and don't send anyone else after me. Don't even tell anyone where I am."

He doesn't wait to see James leave, just turns and stalks on, the expression on his face enough to send people skittering out his way. He goes straight to the Hog's Head, takes the first empty stool at the bar, and demands a vodka, digging his money pouch from his pocket and tossing a couple of galleons on the bar.

"Leave the bottle."

The barman nods, taking the money and leaving a nearly full bottle of vodka by Snape's elbow. Snape tosses back the first shot, shutting his eyes and pressing the back of his hand to his mouth at the nearly forgotten feel of fire burning down his gullet. Tears spill down his face and his hand shakes as he pours another shot and he gulps that down to try and get rid of the lump in his throat, but it takes three more before he can keep himself from completely breaking down into sobs and making a fool of himself in front of the entire pub. It doesn't manage to stop his tears though, nor his shaking hand, or the words repeating themselves in his head.

_"Dad doesn't want me. He never wanted me, so I'm going to do him a favour and make sure he doesn't have me."_

*PSM*

It's after dark when Lucius returns to the graveyard in Godric's Hollow, carrying a cardboard box under one arm. He casts a Notice Me Not Charm over the area and works quickly to dig up the fresh grave, levitate the coffin and remove the body, but leaves the teddy bear inside. He opens the cardboard box and takes out the stiff body of Polaris, who's now missing one leg, transfigures it into a perfect duplicate of Harry and transfigures some leaves into replica clothes for it, then puts it in the coffin, tucking the bear under its arm.

He turns to the grave and waves his wand to dig up another two feet of dirt then levitates Harry into it. He returns just enough dirt to cover him and make it flat, then puts the coffin back in and covers it up. As he does, his eyes flick to the white headstone to the right of Harry's grave. Twenty-years ago, he knows, the gravestone used to be twice as large and hold two names, but now it has only Lily's name written above the epitaph and Lucius assumes James' false body and coffin has been removed. He smiles at the thought; this is the second time he's the cause of a fake body being buried beside Lily Potter.

With his work done, he stows his wand and rubs off his hands, looking down at the grave and deciding it looks no more disturbed than it had before he came.

"Just in case Severus gets suspicious. Enjoy your sleep, Evans."

*PSM*

It's late when Lucius appears in the middle of a crossroads a few miles from Malfoy Manor. He crouches and uses his wand to dig a small hole in the centre of the dirt roads then buries a small box holding a photo of himself, a bone from Polaris, yarrow plant, and a handful of graveyard dirt. When it's fully covered, he straightens up, turning in a slow circle until he sees the woman standing ten feet away on the south road.

"I was expecting a man," Lucius says as she saunters towards him, dressed in a tight black dress that leaves nothing to the imagination about her shapely figure. "Crowley."

The woman smiles and blinks, and her eyes turn completely red save for the black pupils at the centre. "My apologies," she says in perfect Received Pronunciation. "The boss is incredibly busy right now and asked that I deal with you myself."

Lucius frowns. "Do you have the power to revive the dead?"

"For the right price, I can do absolutely anything."

"I'm not interested in platitudes, demon. I will sell my soul for nothing less than the absolute return of my son. He will be brought back to life _completely_. I won't settle for a half alive inferi or some other living dead creature. I want him as he was before he died."

"Of course," the woman agrees. "That can be done. Are you aware of how the contract is sealed?"

"A kiss. If that's all, I want to get this over with and get my son back."

The woman smiles and steps forward, reaching up to curl a hand around the back of his neck and draw him down slightly to make their lips meet. Although he doesn't care about this part of the deal save for what it would bring him, it's the first time he's been kissed in over eight years and the woman is _good_. He can't help deepening it, slipping his tongue into her mouth and moaning softly.

It breaks too soon for his body's satisfaction and the woman steps away, smiling.

"Your son is alive."

All his sexual interest vanishes and he looks around, but sees no sign of Draco anywhere.

"Where? If you've played me—"

The woman laughs. "You asked me to bring him back to life; you said nothing about bringing him _here_."

Lucius inhales sharply, turns on the spot, and Disapparates. He reappears inside the Malfoy Mausoleum, set on the grounds of Malfoy Manor, and instantly hears screaming from behind the nameplate reading _Draco Lucius Malfoy. _Lucius throws a Blasting Hex at it and the rock breaks and crumbles apart, and Lucius pulls out the writhing body inside, the both of them falling to the floor as Draco slides out.

"Draco, calm down. Draco, it's your father. Calm down!"

Draco stops screaming and struggling, breathing harshly as he lays half in his father's lap, staring up at him. Lucius rakes his gaze over the boy. He looks exactly as he had eight years ago, seventeen years old, healthy and alive, and dressed in his burial robes.

"Father?" he says, without even a rasp in his voice. "I don't... what happened? Where am I?"

He sits up, looking around them. His wand, buried with him, has rolled away and he reaches for it, holding it as if he expects to need to use it.

"This is the Malfoy Mausoleum. How did I get here?"

"What's the last thing you remember, Draco?"

"I was just in Las Vegas. Father, why are you here? Are you dead?"

Lucius grips his son's shoulders, his heart lifting to feel solid, warm flesh underhand, though vaguely concerned about why Draco thought he was in Vegas; is that what the afterlife is like?

"No, Draco, I'm not dead. You're alive."

"But that's not possible. I can't be alive. I died."

"I made a deal with a demon to bring you back to life."

Draco stares at him, gaping for a minute, then says, "A demon deal, Father? You'll die! Harry made one too, he told me all about them. You'll die and get your soul dragged to hell by monstrous hell hounds!"

"It'll be worth it," Lucius replies with such calm that Draco snaps his mouth shut. "Anything is worth having you alive, Draco."

"Father..." He trails off, not sure what to say, and swallows thickly. "What about Harry? Where is he? Is he still in Azkaban? I thought you were too."

Lucius is curious at Draco knowing so much about life when he's been dead, but answers, "Harry's the one that told me about demon deals and helped me escape Azkaban, but... Draco, I'm sorry, but he died the day we broke out."

Draco's wand drops from his fingers, clattering to the floor. "What? How?"

"Severus Snape has had another child, one that he's raising and caring for. Harry was too overwhelmed by his father's hatred and he killed himself."

"N-no. Snape doesn't hate Harry."

"He didn't like him enough to look after him, and that's what Harry saw. I'm sorry, Draco, I truly am."

Draco shakes his head. "I don't believe you."

Lucius gets to his feet. "Come with me."

*PSM*

It's McGonagall who finds Snape slouched in a chair in the corner of the Hog's Head, an empty bottle and a shot of vodka on the table in front of him. His eyes are bloodshot and his face bears evidence of dried tears. The barman looks half relieved and half worried to see her approaching Snape and she wonders if Snape's hexed anyone who's tried talking to him since he got there. It wouldn't surprise her.

He doesn't make any attempt to hex her when she approaches, or even look away from staring at the shot glass, but when she slips into the chair opposite him he speaks.

"Three years," he says in a voice drained of all emotion. "Would have been three years next month."

"Severus, you need to get sober and go home."

"Not drunk," he says, bitterness seeping into his voice. "Whole bottle of vodka and my stupid werewolf metabolism stops me from getting drunk. Waste of bloody money."

She doubts he's half as sober as he thinks he is but decides not to mention it. Snape closes his eyes and fresh tears spill down his cheeks.

"It was my fault, Minerva," he whispers. "I killed him."

"It wasn't your fault, Severus."

"I saw it in Lucius Malfoy's mind. Harry said it in his own words. He killed himself because he thinks I never wanted him. I killed my son." He lets out a bitter laugh that makes McGonagall's heart twist. "Twice now."

She swallows the lump in her throat and reaches over to lay a hand on his arm. "Severus, get sober and go home."

He opens his eyes and looks at her, bloodshot gaze filled with despair. "How can I? How can anyone expect me to go home and look after a little girl when I've just killed my son?"

"Severus, you did not kill your son. Harry killed himself and we don't know why—Lucius Malfoy is not a reliable source of information, not even if you invaded his mind. But you need to go and look after your daughter. She's alive and she needs her dad, and Hermione needs you too, and so does James. You can't let Harry's death ruin you. You can't let it stop you from raising Madeleine."

"You're trying to guilt me."

"I'm not. I'm just trying to remind you that Harry's death is not the end of the world and you have responsibilities."

"It's working," he says like he hasn't listened to her. "I have to be the dad to Madeleine that I wasn't to Harry so she doesn't think I don't want her too."

He picks up the shot glass and downs the vodka before she can stop him, then gets to his feet, swaying slightly. McGonagall rises as well, reaching out a steadying hand.

"Severus, you can't go home until you're sober. Let me buy you a Sobriety Potion before you go anywhere."

He hesitates then nods and sits back down. She takes the bottle and glass over to the bar, orders a Sobriety Potion and takes the vial of red liquid back to Snape. He drinks it, grimaces as it takes effect, then slowly looks up at her, his expression one of pure guilt.

"I'm a mess."

"You just buried your son, anyone would be."

"I don't know if I can do this, Minerva. Raise Madeleine. Go to AHI. Not drink."

"Call your therapist in the morning, and let Hermione and James help you. One day at a time, Severus. That's how it works. Let me take you home."

He nods, inhaling shakily and getting to his feet, letting her take his arm and guide him out into the street to Disapparate.

*PSM*

Lucius stands in the graveyard of Godric's Hollow, keeping his attention on the surroundings and anyone that might see him there, or see Draco, knelt by the fresh grave with his hands over his face as tears spill down his cheeks. The gravestone at the head is black marble with silvering lettering that reads simply:

_Harry Evans_

_31__st__ July 1980 – 22__nd__ October 2005_

_Corpus requiescat a malis_

* * *

**A/N:** Corpus requiescat a malis = "May his body rest free from evil".

So how much do you hate Lucius right now? One more chapter, folks, just to round things up here, then it'll be time for the third (and final) part of the series.


	18. Autumn (Again), Part 3

**Autumn, Part 3**

Lily arrives in Godric's Hollow graveyard at just after midnight on the 30th—technically the 31st, her chosen day off for October every year—to find a fresh grave beside her own with her son's name on it, which is only half as shocking as the fact that Snape stands over it, levitating a coffin out while James stands by with his wand lit to give Snape light. She watches, baffled, as Snape sets the coffin on the ground beside the empty grave and opens it to reveal the body of Harry inside.

"No!"

James and Snape, of course, don't hear her. She watches wide-eyed, hands over her mouth, as Snape points his wand at Harry and casts Enervate.

"What are you doing?" she cries. "He's dead!"

"Harry, come on!" Snape demands when there's no reaction from the corpse. "I know you faked it, you wouldn't have killed yourself if you knew Lucius was bringing back Draco. Wake up, damn you!"

He casts the spell again and Lily lowers her hands, frowning as she looks at the body in the coffin. It most definitely is dead, she knows that instinctively as a reaper, but she also knows that Harry isn't. She has family privilege of being able to reap him herself so she'll know if he dies; his name will automatically appear on her mental list of people to reap. But there's also the fact that she has no idea where Harry is, and hasn't since he left Azkaban in July. Since he split his soul, it became difficult to find him, as reapers track souls; a broken one is next to impossible to find and as a relatively young reaper, it's well beyond her capabilities.

She does know, however, that she can find Draco and she leaves Snape to his pointless task to go searching for him.

*PSM*

"Get out of my house."

"Narcissa—"

"I mean it!" Narcissa snaps, glaring at Lucius. "I won't turn you over to the authorities, Lucius, out of gratitude for what you've done, but I will not let you use my son to try and break up James and I."

"Narcissa, please think about this," Lucius insists even as he backs towards the door of the drawing room in Grimmauld Place, hands raised placatingly against the wand Narcissa is brandishing. "Draco should not have to accept a substitute. I'm not saying you have to take me back, but at least consider that you desire for James likely comes from loneliness and—"

"_Do not presume to tell me about my own feelings!_" Narcissa yells, throwing a Stinging Hex at Lucius that scorches his chest and makes him yelp. "I am marrying James because I love him and because I'm carrying his child."

Lucius gapes at her. From a chair across the room, Draco lifts his head from his hands to do the same.

"You're with child?" Lucius asks in a shocked whisper. "You're not even married, Narcissa. How could you disgrace yourself like that?"

Narcissa smiles coldly. "Despite what you're thinking, Lucius, we did not plan this child. He or she is a natural, and happy, accident." Her smile turns cruel. "I suppose the problem was not solely with me."

Colour floods Lucius' cheeks and he glances once more between Narcissa and Draco before whirling on the spot and Disapparating. Draco gets to his feet, hurrying over to his mother.

"Is that true?"

She nods, moving over to sit in the nearest chair and setting down her wand. "I'm sorry you found out like that, darling."

He shakes his head, still looking shocked. "It's..." He can't find a word to express his feelings so instead kneels by her, looking worried. "You told me before that you had a difficult pregnancy with me. Will you be alright? This baby isn't going to harm you, is it?"

"I'll do my best not to let it."

"The shock of me returning probably doesn't help."

She cups his face with both hand and leans forward to kiss his forehead. "It certainly is a shock, but I cannot tell you how glad I am to have you back. And I am sorry about Harry."

He closes his eyes and says nothing, leaning in to hug her and feeling glad to have her arms wrap around him in return.

*PSM*

"Severus, let's go."

Snape doesn't move. James wraps a hand around his arm, trying to tug him away from the open coffin which he kneels beside.

"He's dead, Severus."

"He wouldn't have," Snape says in a quiet voice, but he doesn't sound certain. "He broke Lucius out, he took that book from me, he had to know what Lucius was going to do. He wouldn't have killed himself knowing Draco was coming back."

"We don't know what he knew or what he was feeling, but we had his body checked thoroughly, Severus, and his Horcrux is gone from his Gringotts vault. He's dead."

James doesn't know that he believes that. He can't argue with Snape's logic, but he believes the body in the coffin isn't alive and he knows that if Harry is faking his death, there's a reason for it. He doesn't want them to know he's alive and James doesn't see that they have any choice but to accept that. He's not happy about it—he's utterly furious, in fact, that Harry, alive or dead, is causing Snape so much pain—but no matter what the case, he thinks it's better for Snape to believe Harry's dead than to cling to some hope that he's alive. If he does that, he'll never move on and James knows nothing good can come from Snape failing to accept Harry's death.

"He's dead, Severus. We need to put him back in the ground and go home."

Snape closes his eyes and James sees several tears spill down his cheeks before he covers his face with both hands. James closes the coffin, levitates it back into the ground, and returns the displaced dirt with a murmured spell then pockets his wand and helps Snape to his feet.

*PSM*

"Where is he?" Snape demands, spittle flying from his mouth as he grabs Draco's shoulders and shakes him, standing in the front hallway of Grimmauld Place. "Where's Lucius?"

"Get off me, murderer!" Draco yells at him, shoving the man away and drawing his wand. Snape stares at him. "Father told me. Harry killed himself because of you."

Snape laughs bitterly. "Yes, that's what he'd like us both to think."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Have you thought about how your father found out about demon deals, Draco? He's spent eight years in prison, but Harry breaks him out a week after he returned from trying to save your life. Harry told him about crossroads demons. He even came to my house the day they broke out to get a book on demons."

"So?"

"Harry loved you, Draco. Do you really think he would have killed himself if he knew that Lucius was going to sell his soul to bring you back to life, no matter what I did?"

"Are you accusing my father of killing Harry?"

"Yes."

Draco blinks, startled by the outright admission, then scowls. "Father wouldn't do that. He knows I love Harry."

"And he hates it," Snape reminds him. "Do you remember that? He hated you and Harry being together right until the very end. He didn't consider your feelings when he decided to sacrifice Harry to Riddle. Do you really think he wouldn't do whatever it took to keep you two apart now?"

Draco swallows, fingers tightening on his wand. "He wouldn't kill Harry."

"Why not? Your father is a murderer and not only did he hate your relationship and hate Harry, but he blamed Harry for your death. I've heard him say it myself. Lucius had every reason to want Harry dead."

Draco's hand drops slightly as he considers that, but then a desperate gleam enters his eyes and he lifts his wand again. "Harry's Horcrux had to be destroyed before he could die; Father wouldn't have been able to get that without Harry and Harry wouldn't have just handed it over, so how do you explain that?"

"I don't know," Snape admits, "but there's an explanation, I'm sure of it. Lucius killed Harry, Draco. Let me talk to him and I'll make him admit it."

Draco shakes his head and Snape can see in his eyes that he doesn't believe what Snape's saying. "Harry killed himself, because of you. I don't want to see you ever again, so just leave."

* * *

**Elsewhere**

Lily arrives late in the day to finds Sirius and Lupin anxiously pacing their lavish bedroom in Buckingham Palace. With Harry gone and the imaginary people gone with him, they decide they can live wherever they please and in typical Sirius fashion, he decides they'll live in a palace.

Both men turn on her the moment she arrives and instantly Sirius blurts, "Draco disappeared last night."

"I know," she tells them wearily. "He's alive."

"He's what?"

She passes him and moves over to a sofa, collapsing on it. "Lucius Malfoy sold his soul to a crossroads demon in exchange for bringing Draco back to life."

"Huh," Sirius says. "So Draco's alive and Lucius is destined to go to hell within ten years. I don't see a bad side to this."

"But something's wrong, isn't there, Lily?" Lupin says, going over and sitting beside her. "What is it?"

"It's Harry."

"You found him?" Sirius asks, dropping down on her other side.

"No, but he must have turned up. He's faked his death. From what I hear, he broke Lucius out of Azkaban and supposedly died the same day. His funeral was yesterday, but I know for certain he's not dead although the body in his coffin is."

"You're definite he's not dead? A hundred percent?"

She nods. "I'm family so I have first rights to reap him and his name would have come to me, but I've asked other reapers as well. He's not dead, but no one knows where he is. I even finally called on Death to ask, but if he knows, he won't tell me."

"That bloody kid," Sirius curses, getting up to pace again. "It's like he enjoys disappearing from people's lives and causing them worry. First as a kid, then when he was a teenager, now an adult."

"That's not fair, Sirius," Lupin scolds. "He had good reason to disappear as a child and no idea he had anyone to care for him then. You know why he vanished as a teenager, and I'm sure he thinks he has good reason now."

"He thought he had good reason as a teenager, too. It's all Snape's bloody fault again, I bet. I'm right!" he cries, noticing Lily's expression at his words. "Snape did something, didn't he?"

"No," she answers quickly, then amends, "I don't know. I have no idea why Harry's disappeared, but... Hermione gave birth."

Sirius shudders. "Can't believe she slept with him," he mutters.

"I slept with him."

"Still struggle to believe that."

Lupin frowns at him. "Sirius, stop it. Lily, why do you think the baby has anything to do with this?"

"I think, and I'm just guessing, but I think perhaps Harry disappeared in July because of this. Whatever your opinion on Severus and Hermione, this child is Harry's sister and it's possible that Harry isn't dealing with that fact very well. We already know he isn't good at dealing with things; maybe he doesn't like the fact that Severus, who abandoned him as a child, now has another baby. He might have faked his death to break all his ties to Severus, or maybe even to punish him."

"Can't blame him if he does," Sirius says. "Snivellus deserves it."

"Don't, Sirius," Lily replies. "You didn't see Severus, you haven't seen what Harry's supposed death has done to him. He's a mess."

Sirius shrugs. Lupin asks, "You don't believe that's what happened though, do you, Lily?"

She glances at him then admits, "I'm not sure. I heard Severus arguing with Draco and he made some compelling points that Lucius may have killed Harry. Obviously, Harry's not dead, but I still think it's possible Lucius did something to him. I told you that Harry supposedly died the day he broke out of Azkaban—according to Severus, Harry fetched a book on demons from him that same day, which strongly supports the theory that Harry was the one who had the idea to bring Draco back to life with a demon deal, and he had to have known that the demons would never deal with him again so it would have to be Lucius to make the deal."

"But Harry never would have killed himself or just vanished if Draco was coming back," Sirius points out. "So Lucius did something to him?"

"How?" Lupin asks. "Surely Harry didn't trust Lucius enough to let himself be caught unawares by him. Lucius was a Death Eater, he helped get Harry imprisoned, and he sided with Riddle when he possessed Harry, you told us. Harry can't have forgotten all that and actually trusted him."

Sirius and Lily glance at each other then Lily says, "He did join his prison cell with Lucius' for the last few months before he vanished in June. Harry would have been incredibly vulnerable after leaving here and if Lucius was the only person Harry interacted with to any great extent during that time..."

"Then he might have trusted Malfoy," Sirius finishes with a sigh. "That bloody kid."

Lupin gets up and pulls Sirius into a hug, providing what little comfort he can to the man. Sirius clings to him hard before pulling back enough to kiss him, then sighing and looking back over at Lily.

"You haven't told us how James is handling everything."

"When I saw him he was complaining to Narcissa that Severus is in such a state that his feelings are spilling over their Bond so much that James can't figure out his own emotions."

Sirius scowls and growls something unpleasant about Snape, that the other two ignore.

"They're still together then?" Lupin says to Lily.

She nods. "They're engaged."

Sirius jerks away from Lupin. "_What?!_"

Lily can only shrug. Sirius staggers over to a chair and sits down. "How is this possible? He's married to you!"

"I'm dead, Sirius. You didn't expect us to still be mooning over one another twenty-five years later?"

"I... yes?"

She rolls her eyes. "You're an idiot, Sirius Black. If I was the kind of person who couldn't move on from my attachments in life, Death never would have made me a reaper, and you should have had more faith in your best friend."

"He still loved you when I was alive!"

"Of course he did, Padfoot," Lupin says. "That doesn't mean he couldn't move on and love someone else."

"He can't possibly love Narcissa."

"Presumably he does," Lily says. "She's with child as well."

Sirius gapes, then suddenly straightens in his seat, expression turning serious. "What if this is some kind of lingering thing from being Bonded to Lucius?" he asks. "What if he only thinks he likes Narcissa because of how Lucius treated him?"

"I doubt that," Lupin argues. "James has been Bonded to Severus since the war ended and hopefully he's been receiving psychiatric treatment as he did before. I'm sure he wouldn't marry Narcissa just because of Lucius."

"We don't know that, Moony. Lils, you've got to do something. Prongs is—was—your husband, you've got to save him from my cousin."

"I'm doing no such thing. James is old enough to make his own decisions and mistakes and I'm not allowed to meddle in the affairs of the living anyway."

"But, Lily—"

"No."

"What are you going to do about Harry?" Lupin asks Lily, who sighs.

"There's nothing I can do. Until he decides to reveal himself, all I can do is hope he's alright and looking after himself. I just hope that when I do find him, it won't be because his name shows up on my list."

* * *

**A/N:** Thus ends _Peace is a State of Mind_. I hope you've enjoyed it. The sequel, and final part of this series, will begin posting on the 26th.


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